Patti Masterman Poems
A House Breathes Through Its Bones
A house breathes through its bones,
Its summits sit like sentries;
Though rafters decompose-
It never denies entry.
Its ghosts lie in their beds,
Soft earth beneath their memory;
The shutters firmly closed-
The past seen only dimly.
The Belly Of The Beast
Lost in the belly of the beast,
We look up and see all those curving arches,
And we think then that we're in some majestic cathedral;
But the next sloping corridor takes us down to the mortuary,
The processing station, for what we are busy turning into.
But we still ignore the smell, as we're too busy believing
That for us, a great feast is being prepared-
Just like children at christmas time
Always believe the world is organized solely around them;