NR Digital


by Len Krisak


What are the houses of the old?
                     Last vestibules we enter,
          Small vastnesses. They smell of mold,
                     Of camphor, and of must,
          And of necessity, their center
                                Cannot hold.
                     Moth-eaten are their rooms
                     Where merely breathing dooms
          Us to incorporating dust,
And to the anterooms that take us in.
                     Penultimately cold,
                     We wait there to begin.

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