Condemned, the house is full of a guilt like the glooms
Of its drawn curtains hanging heavily.  After
Hours suspects loiter about the rooms,
And when they too have gone to bed, from rafter
Down the house is still full of a guilt.  The great
Indoors turns on its axis, reflecting no sunlight.
It is difficult to say just whose eyes those are that dilate
And stare on the ceiling, or, in bed below them, why one might
Feel responsible for the toadstool that blooms in the cellar,
   the spider
That thrills along the wall, the attic stairs
Crammed into the darkness–or why in these things,
   poor insider,
His own life is taken–but in uneasy chairs
In the morning he thinks for a counselor in whom to confide them.
These are the cases the courts won’t admit–who, then, will decide them?

–May 7, 1966

(“Sonnet” appeared in the December 1998 issue of Creative Juices, Canterbury CT.)

Published on November 15, 2006 at 5:15 pm  Leave a Comment  

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