Finally redoing the memory palace.
Rooms around the courtyard
crowd the leaky fountain.
What passed for fashion
can’t be fathomed now.
Red and tan, the ghastly shags –
none of the mnemonics
help the back room’s black lacquer.
Western ranch, faux distressed,
branded bar nones and lariats.
Just writing about walking through
all the poems with no one in them
makes it easier to sense what might be
under lurid layers of paint:
pallid frescoes, old gold leaf.
Maui wowie, mirror of truth.
Forty-yard dumpster and it’s down to the studs.
Natural light, Norwegian Wood, muted blues
then when the tour is given, past
the Aga, bookshelves, garden, beds
mosaic patterns on the floor
repurposed from the smashed and broken
songbirds in the fig trees hung with tender
fruit mixed with sounds of water, gesturing
nonchalantly at plein air, saying yes, remember
where and when and yes, it was always this way.