Aunt, yes. We call these our own. The smell of her house. Garbage on the floor. Coffee and appearances of unalterable walls. Appearances that don’t disturb, as they don’t disturb. Drinking coffee, we talk, as the smell of cows and morning freshness drifts in an open door. A small and gentle warmth contents. Many great moments had slept here, and departed, heartily, left their smells about the place. Moments overlaminate the feel of air considered, an essence breathed. I ask it be a poem. Autumn covers loosely on my bed. Old poems read from a dusty book, themselves compressed, as pages the sigh of my room is riffled through, in my ease, I have all the time.

January 1972