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It’s a small world,

inhabited by small animals

– doubt, the possibility of death –

and lit by the hesitant light of

small stars – the rustle of books,

your steps going up the stairs,

the cat in the drawing room playing

with evening’s last sunbeam.

One would rather call it a house,

a little taller than an empire

and slightly more inscrutable

than the word ‘house’; it doesn’t glow.

Yet, certain nights

it leaves itself and me

and stays suspended outside

between memory and remorse from another life.

Then, lights turned out,

I hear voices calling,

dead words never uttered

and the endless agony of finished things.