shine dapples the spanish revival homestead; on its unlighted
veranda sways a sash door, drape astir, insects monologuing
as townless criers to arid wind, archivist of absence, all alike
nullities communing; sconces slumbered over chaises vacant
inviting hearts wandered, its hall hearth remembered by dust
yet who it warmed is displaced but beyond sense: alike bugs
to breeze they, too, cried for proof they were worth missing.
some of us are so ashamed of even the most innocent aspects
of who we are that eventually we run out of people to be t.r.
feeling outrun? share penumbrae with the skinamatographer.
long after the skinamatographer dies, you may always
return here; in reading this you have already built it ;
ghosts are only the dead dreaming of the present and
the moon is high over the skinamatographers chateau.