The psychic house has collapsed so far in on itself, that
no light or any other signal can escape from it.
Such houses are the ghosts of the dead neighbourhoods,
whose interiors cannot be observed from a safe distance.
How long have I loved you?
I speak to a manifestation which may or may not exist.
No traces persist to distinguish how this
particular gentleman formed.
No one who ventured in could send any signals
to the external world. Yet the place is oddly occupied.
On some nights it's as if the walls spoke.
There are men who have collapsed so far inwards,
that no light or other signal can escape from them.
These deepest insights stem from him.
Frozen rooms. Clocks working backwards.
There is no wind amongst the movement of objects.
Birds avoid the yard in mid summer.
Cats are nowhere to be found even amongst the shady hedges.
The psychic investigators came in and set up the equipment.
They slept, as the house turned infra red and began to notice.
The next morning they woke up in several different bedrooms.
They couldn't speak sensibly of their experience, except to say
'It would be astonishing if there were still not many mysteries,
whose rich consequences are far from having been exhausted.'
Investigators depend on observation rather than experiments.
Sound waves embedded in rich granite rock, old foundations.
If a new universe emerges from a past one,
no individual particles and maybe 'no memory'
from the previous cycle will survive at all.
Yet there exists a psychic house that traces its origin.
It started with hydrogen, helium.
They could even be the gateways to other times.
There is a presence in the room. He is a man.
His eyes are wide, searching my back even whilst I face him.
His energy no higher than that carried by starlight or cosmic rays.
We crash together and merge, hurtling through space.
The hallway contains a background hiss
that couldn't be attributed to instrumental affects or known sources.
There is another whose pupils are the knives cutting up the kitchen.
You must exile her, for although she is playful, she is often cunning.
He lives in the bedroom mirror before thunderstorms.
You must change the heavy curtains, avoid lightning.
Perhaps love is completely self contained
without beginning or end.
My heart aches for him, amongst the trees outside the window.
I said, 'my love began here, when galaxies were young.'
Love is slow and strong. No other facts are known.
