But It Certainly Does Endure
Time passes and makes your memory a dollhouse,
all tiny manipulatives and desperate to-the-left-of.
There I am, standing in a doorway - forever in a doorway -
never admitted to any room, always moved to thresholds.
Is it "pawn"? To never admit me, to always leave me
waiting at a precipice? I would wait until colors fade,
until these waxen arms melt, until these eyes go grey.
You do not allow for such sacrificial play within
the plasticine diorama. No. There - close softly
the house in on itself; I, standing in cusps - you,
sitting at the desk of executive decisions, moving
figures. Dollhouses are crypts for dreaming, idle
playgrounds of ships passing the shores of "could-be."
Silence closes the house; silence closes the sails.
Silence in the foundations. Dolls stand still. Dolls
are folded over and idle to gather dust. Gather dust.
Gather silence and clasp it with motionless hands.
Gather within a picture of your hands, around my throat.
Pantomime resistance. The struggle was a dollhouse
pigmentation, sailing ghost ships, but I suppose, now,
that the choking was real. Gather, memory. Gather, dust.