937
the
keys
to
houses long gone
are
passed on from parents to children
as
if there were a hope of return
when
there never was a country
and
now that country is gone
half
a century more
since
the bulldozers
since
thieves took the whole quarter
the
village, the suburb, the town
and
they have better bulldozers now
can
we ever come back?
return
to the land?
here
are the keys for another world
to
where time stood
you
have to imagine the doors
and
the dinner, the children, the telling
the
truth of who we are
which
key for which door?
who will remember?
who will remember?
there
never was any water here
but
we could always find it
always
like this
a
stoop in the still
then
the big desert winds
village
swept off
town
over town
a
city then empires
each
from another's dust
and
the key to the house
to
the country, the heart
can't
remember if I turned off the stove
can't
remember if the door was locked
that's
what the key is for
their
houses
their
country
their
hearts
their
keys
a
pile of rust
in
our hands
the
past will always return to you here
that
is the curse of the place
we never know when it might be needed, the world a clearing house for locks. What a tight poem Kit.
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