I walked past a house where I lived once: a man and a woman are still together in the whispers there.

—YEHUDA AMICHAI

The house of childhood sold,

or razed—

not lost but

softened, distended:

diaphanous linked chambers springing from

a lightshaft or a varnish smell,

the way a floorboard aches,

a scrap of wallpaper

tunnels the heart.

—BY DON BOGEN