DOUBLE HOUSE POEM That one surmounts oneself is the wisdom of the shadow. The light winks constantly because it knows this secret — that Irene sits in front of the mirror, with a rose compact and this is why the smell of powder inexplicably fills the air, and rose is the colour of the wall at night. Shadows rise behind their objects. Memory is this: a peripheral world of pale liquid stone. On the plaster wall the light is wet: a headlight on a rainy bypass. In the room, fin of light, fly of light, twinned light of angels, moving but unscared. Where candlelight illuminates the ceiling—mostly, or lights the underside of a tree's leaves— yes, this: box of the soul. The sink is my palm, upturned on the floor for you; think of your house; descend. The fig tree's shadow is a ladder for you to climb. Press your ear to the fridge; inside is a cautious poet echoing your poem. Eyes closed the water is porcelain; eyes open it is the vein of...