Two Poems

The House At The End of the Century

Opposite us, a house stands
with a broken roof
on a slanted hill, now
less than 45 degrees under a
mobile sun. It's frontal façade is
also worn into gaping holes, boards
and battens missing; the paint gone.

Maybe some invisible army of ants
will take pity on such a forgotten
construction. You know, they say
that an ant can carry the equivalent
to seven times its own weight.
Say, 2 teams of 20 billion will do it.
Setting a direct line from anthill to
front door, bringing materials, carrying
the stock on their backs, doing their
ant-chat.

The blind man 4 houses down
requires a description. He has heard
of this house.
He comes to my door.
He wears a bowler hat, pulled down
to dark glasses. He doesn't knock,
just clicks a white cane on my doorstep.

The Gods have failed us, he says.
It grows dark behind his outline,
in my doorway, this blind man
who I do not know.

Karma

I still remember minor details
of a previous life. How the wolves
tore at flesh, and gypsies sang
as they sank with a burning ship.

And how certain memories
keep coming back like
salt lines on cheeks;
how we all together
start another journey,
happy, unfearful,
out into the silent green.