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sometimes the house is so still

 its as if it’s heart is
pulsating as you take
each breath, sometimes
gasping for air like
you’re drowning
in your sleep and
the quiet envelops me
where muffled
low-frequency wimpers
and figety sleep-twitches
can be heard throughout
the house, the two
dogs snoring–the house
having a rhythm all its own
its wake time its autumn
its slumber–it squeaks
as it settles, hunkering
down for another
hundred years the
old house holding
up quite well almost
swaying gently in the
music of your wheeze
you and the families
before us that
lived among these
secrets and walls do they
harbor fugitive thoughts
or secretly in the
stillpoint just before
dawn do the walls steal
our dreams as
we sleep?


– Alameda | April 5, 2003

©2006 Jamie Gross | All Rights Reserved