Tessa, We Dwell in Possibility

We live in the house of fiction.
Which is more than being merely
writerly, Tessa. It’s not as if
we writers have it bad, like
measles or something.
Jesus, how to explain?

Some days you feel bereft.
Spare, tight, callous even.
Drank and sighed, blighted as
the shadows that fell between
the lintels. A dark spell
like a ruinous bell.

Then arose, arbitrary, oblique,
a line so neat, startling
whatever decay. Some flair
for words bloomed–a bridge.
So it was, Tessa, we’ve followed
Dickinson into this room.

Prompt: You’ve probably recognised the title borrowing Dickinson’s line. Borrow it for yourself. Or is the word, leverage? I’ll reproduce the whole poem for your edification and imagining for your own poem. For it is this house that we inhabit, isn’t that so?

I dwell in Possibility

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –


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