The House

What is this sadness that lurks, that lurks
And lurches along the cold stone
Steps and climbs into the vestibule
Of cracked ceramics and flaking
Paint? It is the house abandoned
Of fluttering moths and parchments, drifting,
Habitual to creeping mice and chirping clocks,
In sifting shingles shifting northerly winds
While evening clatters on the streets
And the moondish rings the clinking
Knives of stars -- and the clouds, they gather
In a thick soup and pour down pea-sized
Clumps of snow until, like table scraps,
The earth is covered in a molting mass;
And on the hill a stippled church-bell chimes
The midnight's vesper, but the dusty desks
And chairs are moldy, heedless, and the night
Folds silent wings across the wings
Of her silent charge. Rest, sleepy house,
With your broken eyes, moss-stubbled mouth,
Age-ridden, gang-stricken cheeks: sleep
Through the restive gales and winter's drought,
In the emptiness of an unfulfilled number,
Forgotten words. -- These ruins bring to mind
Long plains of desert gloom, an undiscovered country
Prodigally vast, invested beyond memory, that,
Lacking only interest, sits patiently and waits.