filling the rooms

In hushed whisper we enter to speak 

in the house of low ceilings and high decorative arches 

and paint and half finished, half red kitchens

we enter to speak again

the air hangs, neither summer nor winter. It is pulled by the hair 

sticking at the roots like worn-out dye- fading never a single color

 the dog lies on its bed, its head turned to face the excitement of the windows, 

he is what remains of his owner, black fur here and there 

tools, a few shoes, movies and dancing paintings and pictures:

below the ceiling and above the sofa, a canvas

a young couple burying their faces into one another, eyes shut

lips apart. The owner, the dancer, the teacher, the indentation between
two feet on a flat wooden floor has been gone a while
gone to harvest, harvested going

 We enter to speak again, we whisper asking about time 

that flies stealing half the pictures, white-washing the last trays of song and stars

where does it all go? where do we all go?
do we all harvest?
we enter to speak again of the feral cats that left to harvest
the last mice of autumn, left with their owner
feral for life.
All is gone and done in a whim, the last pieces of summer
the owner's shadow, the coal in the grill and day light
but in the small house we enter to speak again of the things that leave
I look at the walls
it is true that at first it struck me,  the big canvas frame of a young couple in love,

their kiss for all eternity, saving itself like speech, like vows

like the big canvas frame, the tiny fireplace and the cushions
parts of a whole, that's only a part now-

the dog is out too, he is chasing daddy long legs in the grass

all in the back garden
I turn to enter the house of low ceilings and high arches 

when  it strikes again

the smell of one person, the memory of a human

filling the rooms.