as a condition of our life there,
as melody arises from the bass.
Crystal in the breakfront, Virgil in the case,
the animation of the inanimate, a tear
in the seam and seeming of such a place,
as if poltergeists danced free through space,
drinking and breaking glasses, tossing a chair,
their melody arising from the bass,
channeled through our old piano. A trace
of longing, regret, secrets left under the stair,
it didn’t seem so much a place
as a feeling, if feeling there was in wood and lace,
closed doors, stained glass, a captured air
of music arising from the cellar’s bass
to send vibrations like expressions across the face
of the house, its in-turned, inhabited stare.
It didn’t seem so much a place
as a melody arising from my base.