| Dust ". . . . . . . But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose leaves I do not know." - T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton I stand in the center of the hallway of the empty house - I am not really there - on the brown linoleum floor between green walls and twin bronze sconces. There is a table, with old mail strewn across its limited surface. It twists away from me - The thin wood legs embracing Perspective; The light turns one way, then another, on those gleaming legs. The I that is not there walks with bare feet impossibly feeling the sway of the floor - the tilt and hump of its body. I am struck by the strength of the smell - though I am miles away, laying on a bed, hearing the hum of a fan. The carpet is still soft, with the scent of wood and mildew - moisture must have crept in over the years. Silent as the brief sunlight winking through the patio door; The sound of its wooden creaking frame shutting, with a crash, cuts through even the fan sounds and another muffled noise outside my window, now, as I lay on the bed, and am not walking through the house. I went a long way, But the rooms are empty. The one still A bright canary-yellow. What is the result Of that room, and all the other rooms? Even this room (though this will have to come back Later - until later I won't know) - But I don't know now What lingers more? The dark green basement Room, or the yellow, or people Whose faces I cannot recall as well as I recall a house. The streets are empty - but I remember, something else, a noise in the distance - the sounds of people moving being, somewhere else, just outside my vision - like a ghost sound in an old house, the settling creak of the stairs as the damp creeps in. But then, Those are things for the present - for the living house. My image is not moving; the creak is the same as one heard at night in that house or in some other, and will be the creak I hear until another overtakes my consciousness. And the sound of distant people, laughing, Burning leaves in Autumn, children running under Lawn sprinklers under a hot sun - That will continue, Will not change, will be added to, until it is the hum of a city. |