Old Wood

a floorboard creaks;
(quietly observed and duly noted)

(sacred confession)
the steady and slow procession of years marked like
layers of sandstone in grooves and
       profound rotting of rings, memories of pressure
exerted and released like tides. 

slow pleasured breaths, or breaths carving grief 
       into the holes of his-self, her-self
       (knots packed with dead dust)
like the push and pull of the sun and the earth and the moon pulling each other
closer to each and then out into the dark regions of space
where nobody has put in a lightbulb yet
or maybe the chain is broken.

each year we are in a new place but
the wood floors in this house remain the same
until the day they creak one more time
and are gone

The End

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