In shale dusted cypress lies a house, gables worn down, the rain incessantly tarnishing the paint. Therein lies a man’s ghost, wired from head to toe with rust, patina rubbed away revealing the good years: climbing roses, clear windows, magnificent bones. He’s here in rain-soaked swaddling, a Norwegian bed where offspring dreamt airplanes and stars, plaster falls; a hole in the roof is open where his soul departed. Now we have patched the roof to keep our souls safe, in the corners of this old becoming new house, in wood and plaster and peeling paint.

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