Every house is either like an old
coroner, or it’s like a town crier
for the dead. Either there’s that old
toaster on the table, those spilled
oats on the tablecloth, even a sprouted
onion in the sink— the floor boards that always creak
when you step on them. Or: the sunlight has pressed
the wallpaper roses into the plaster,
and that trace of a face in the windows—
yes, that great mysterious face, and the great
mysterious song she is always singing—
that must just be an echo in the chimney, or
an undigested bit of potato, right?
Surely, nothing to lose sleep over. Right?
Every house is either like an old coroner, or it’s like a town crier for the dead. Either there’s that old toaster on the table, those spilled oats on the tablecloth, even a sprouted onion in the sink— the floor boards that always creak when you step on them. Or: the sunlight has pressed the…
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