He Was Reading Old Poems
(response to Jesús J. Barquet)

In an old enough house,
the colors
on the walls in each room call,
as the light through the windows
allows.

At first, that’s all there is to it.

But the edges and ceiling lines,
the moldings and doorframes,
and every little crack in the paint
hint of the layering,
the depths beneath,
fragments
of what was (or might have been)
all around him.

Perhaps it still is.