Lies open to the rain. The roof
Has long since fallen in. Moss flourishes
On a northern window sill. This house that would
Wait all day for his return at evening
And welcome him back into its lonesome dark:
Wild fuchia grows now by its doorway.
And a sinuous willow in the living room
Where he had lain night after night,
Befriended by insomnia and night-sweats,
His lungs struggling for air, his mind
Fitting together in the breathless dark
The delicate mechanics of his poetry.
This is where he lived, where he existed.
Nothing else remains of him but words.