The House

Even after the Romans
people pass.
Someone (imagined) in Carlisle, 2004:

The sounds belong to my ears, the doors
belong to my hands, the red tiles
to my eyes, the floors to my daughters and
the attics to my sons and vice versa

it all belongs to me, I live as I sleep
beneath the safe roof of my breathing
until the wind shakes up the walls,
forgets the tiles with my sight and falls still.

It will be another wind that blows through the house.
Maybe you are still here, and maybe not.
It will be another wind.

Someone has a house, the sounds belong
to her ears, the doors belong to her hands,
but it is not me. We are not there.