<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Further extracts from <\/em><\/p>\n <\/em>The Old Man in the House of Bone<\/strong><\/p>\n Outside the house of bone, beyond the tangled wood *<\/p>\n Let the house of bone be a book<\/em> *<\/p>\n Inside the house of bone there are many rooms *<\/p>\n Let the house of bone be a star<\/em> *<\/p>\n In one of the rooms in the house of bone, the old man *<\/p>\n Let the house of bone be a hawk<\/em> <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nthere are storms, winds howling, people being born
\nrain pours and lashes in slant-sheets of downpour
\nthese people meet other people, fall in love
\nlightning strikes, whumps of white flame shutter the sky
\nthey grapple with each other, eat each other
\nabandon each other, are turned out alone into the boiling world
\nto go fugitive through tempests and shipwrecks
\npursued by devils screeching, causing mayhem
\ndisrupting the party, destroying all the birthday gifts
\nas cars collide, trains go off the rails, everything smashes
\ninto everything else, everyone dies and gets born again
\nthe world floods and sinks beneath the waves
\nand comes back shining, everything starts over
\nbut nothing like that happens in the house of bone.<\/p>\n
\nin which all the words are written backwards<\/em><\/p>\n
\neach one its own kind of creature, in its burrow
\nor its nest, or snuggled down deep inside its den
\nand each of these creatures guards a precious object
\nsuch as the soft skin of the hands, the bright blood
\nthe neatly combed hairline, the wrinkled corner of a smile
\nand they keep them well-hidden, put away for safe keeping
\nwrapped in tissue paper, tied up with ribbons
\nwhere they remain a long time, too long, they are forgotten
\nthey shrivel, dry up, turn into sand that the old man lets fall
\nbetween his fingers, the dust of all his days
\ncollecting in a little heap on the carpet
\nand there is no sea to wash them away
\nonly the house of bone with its flotsam and fossils
\nits footprints in rock, its empty, hollow caves.<\/p>\n
\nat the edge of your eye-pupil, too distant to glitter<\/em><\/p>\n
\nis working a magic, he\u2019s taking all the silences
\nfrom every part of the house, from all the corners
\nand the cubby holes, from the small hidden space
\ntucked under the stairs, and he\u2019s weaving them together
\nstrand by delicate strand, and making a music of them
\na slow music that hurts in its making, like the hurt
\nof every morning, of wind in the letterbox, the hurt
\nof the dull ticking of evening, and it trickles
\nthrough the cracks and chinks in his body
\nit undoes the bandages, it unwraps him mercilessly
\nand he lets it, he listens to the word it brings
\nfrom that other world, the one he left on the bus
\nwith his passport and his wallet, he lets it empty him out
\nand leaves it playing behind the firmly closed door
\nlike a madwoman in the attic, like a photo in its locket.<\/p>\n
\nnailed to the sky at the back of your skull<\/em><\/p>\n