Gedicht
John Burnside
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF CHILDHOOD 1: HOUSE
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF CHILDHOOD 1: HOUSE
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF CHILDHOOD 1: HOUSE
If the house in a dreamIs how I imagine myself:
room after room
of furniture no one could use;
stairs leading upwards
to nothing; an empty hall
filling with snow
where a door has been left ajar;
then whatever I make
of the one room high in the roof
where something alive and frantic
is hopelessly trapped,
whatever I make
of the sweetness it leaves behind
on waking, what I know
and cannot tell
is awkward and dark in my hands
while I stop to remember
the snare of a heart;
the approximate weight of possession.
© 2002, John Burnside
From: London Review of Books
From: London Review of Books
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THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF CHILDHOOD 1: HOUSE
If the house in a dreamIs how I imagine myself:
room after room
of furniture no one could use;
stairs leading upwards
to nothing; an empty hall
filling with snow
where a door has been left ajar;
then whatever I make
of the one room high in the roof
where something alive and frantic
is hopelessly trapped,
whatever I make
of the sweetness it leaves behind
on waking, what I know
and cannot tell
is awkward and dark in my hands
while I stop to remember
the snare of a heart;
the approximate weight of possession.
From: London Review of Books
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF CHILDHOOD 1: HOUSE
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