Out of this house,
out of this heart’s silent chambers
ordered through sludge and past offenses
ordered to report to light,
he yet drags his feet.
In the Spring,
there are colors that have been forgotten
and
there are hatched long rusted shut-
there is water to be let in.
Where once music leapt like
rainstorm frogs
now just words, phrases, fragments
occasionally whip around
chalky metal corners
to spook him. To make him remember.
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