THE ENTROPHY OF EMPTY ROOMS

THE ENTROPHY OF EMPTY ROOMS                      v.2

                                    —for David & Rose McCaffrey McBride

There's something of that peculiar weight

of age that falls upon us as we

enter the rooms of abandoned houses

as if conversation from another era

abruptly ceased and found tongue again

in the silence after a point well-taken.

What survives us most accurately

are things ordinary and plain:

the particular way everyday objects

resonate with newfound significance.

How a death in the family

anchors us to what is no longer there.

On a coal-stained wall, a sooty relief of a clock,

& the shadowy remains of a crucifix—

as if the silhouettes themselves

Resurrected things not intended

to witness the end of an era—in a cigar box:

post cards from the World's Fair,

snapshots of children, dead horses and cars;

a spring bonnet & veil, matching gloves,

tea china still waiting on the sideboard.

A clouded mirror dreamily eyes

the round face of the sky

& a streetsong of rain escapes

from clogged gutters with a practiced ease

drawn from the nostalgia of the past.

rev. 2/2001

2001 Transfer Magazine #81, spring issue

THE ENTROPHY OF EMPTY ROOMS

                                                      —for David & Rose McCaffrey McBride 

There's something of that peculiar weight 

of age which falls upon us when we 

enter the empty rooms of abandoned houses

as if conversation from another era 

had suddenly ceased, and found tongue 

again in the silence after a point well-spoken.

What survives us most accurately 

are things ordinary and plain:

The particular way, for example, 

in which objects of everyday life

resonate in the memory

and take on new significance.

Or how a death in the family 

increases the value of lost heirlooms, 

anchoring us to what's no longer there—

On the blank wall, a sooty outline of a clock,

& the shadowy remains of a crucifix—

as if the silhouettes themselves 

stood in place of an idea, 

and the resurrection of things not intended 

to witness the end of a life: the wooden box 

with faded Kodak snapshots of dead horses and cars,

the spring bonnet & frothy veil, matching gloves,

a clouded mirror dreamily reflecting 

the round face of the sky. . .

The streetsong of the rain escapes

from clogged gutters with a skilled ease

drawn from the nostalgia of the past.

1/3/93   San Francisco