Robert Berry

The House

Not far from uproarious surf
behind dunes
succulent sand flowers

the dirt has eyes.
Woodpiles stare.

Under this house
where we lived two decades
roots creep like nerves in pain

the soft gums of the barn rot
in sand piled over and over.

Salt has desiccated all the rooms
so you can drill a finger into
                  open sky.

Gales rake over the silence
and brittle timber, sandflies
                  rodents, bones.

The abscess of lies
that is the past
builds like the dunes.

The old words that
meant something
more than storm water
go blur.