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    a poem by John Grey

    Abandoned Farmhouse in the New Hampshire Woods

    It's just the bones of a house,

    its skin long peeled,

    the frame of four unequal rooms,

    and doors that usher in nothing and nowhere

    out of and into the sun and rain.


    The towering oak may boast

    a roof of new shiny leaves

    but the dwelling hears nothing

    from that quarter.

    Its scattered tiles are

    overgrown puzzles for squirrels.

    A rotted roof beam spears the mud floor

    of what was once a cellar.


    The everyday has totally abandoned

    this hapless structure.

    No one cooks, no one sleeps,

    no one even stands out

    on the collapsed veranda

    and scratches.

    No first name is called out

    from the invisible window

    on the second floor.

    No last name will ever answer. 

    John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. He has recently been published in That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter. 

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