The old house lay new, as new as any spinster.
There was no dust on the marbled floor
and it vainly tried to mirror the ceiling.
The faded, cracked pages of hardbound books
stacked in wooden bookshelves
told new stories - they talked about these days.
Faces that looked out from daguerreotypes
on the walls were not of dead people
but of those just being born, once again seeking death.
I expected coarse dust from bygone years
I wanted the books to have just memories in them
and I had dreamt of finding dead people here.
