If the house in a dream <br />Is how I imagine myself: <br /> <br />room after room <br />of furniture no one could use; <br /> <br />stairs leading upwards <br />to nothing; an empty hall <br /> <br />filling with snow <br />where a door has been left ajar; <br /> <br />then whatever I make <br />of the one room high in the roof <br /> <br />where something alive and frantic <br />is hopelessly trapped, <br /> <br />whatever I make <br />of the sweetness it leaves behind <br /> <br />on waking, what I know <br />and cannot tell <br /> <br />is awkward and dark in my hands <br />while I stop to remember <br /> <br />the snare of a heart; <br />the approximate weight of possession.<br /><br />John Burnside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-archaeology-of-childhood-1-house/
