Mould

1 July 2009

I hold the darkness this time
before you so that you too can
touch the walls with bare hands.
I tear the papers into pieces
for the moulding in the starch.

You can see a faint candlelight
in the wind in a distance.
That is the memories. The steps
are closer to the ears now
from seventy-two years down.

Can you remember our guest
in this empty house? He is
the only man here in red dungarees,
you cannot reach his face.
I see the first dog he killed

before he creakedly locked
the gate. The fume from his mouth
clouds the room and it is too
late to ask questions, someone
from behind restores our tongues.

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