The House of Forgetting

The house of forgetting
has no doors, its windows

lie smashed beside cold
foundation stones.  Even

the chimney leans like an
old drunk against a lamppost.

A singer breaks his voice
against low sky and crows

answer from dripping yews. 
Their sounds are like brittle

fingers snapping in the wind
or the crunch of footsteps across

a rickety floor.  Everything
feels empty here, and wan,

everything has come undone.
Even now you drag your

wounded toe, carving patterns
in dust – lips have forgotten

their blood-red streaks
and eyes their glinting blue.

Where are the bricks
of memory, rough, red feel of  

their bodies cradled heavy
in the warm flesh of your hand?