Words, words, words.

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.