House of the Setting Sun

In the tawny moiré of your eaves
I found a city lying asleep
Buried in their tangled locks
Of synthetic gold and
In the tinkers of inebriation
I found the streets
That will ferry me home
And the sun would never bow
To cut the salient swath
Of time and vertigo
Because these walls hold
The pliant corolla of
Of surfeit gaiety
And this floor is the threshold
Of infinite chances
In the pale gilded walls
I impale myself like a wallpaper
Slathering every soul
Into the graves in my skin
I am one with the yellow house
And we are the maladroit spin
Of the clock's wafting arms,
The silent breathing
In the attic's chambers,
And in your bright collection
Of quasars and chandeliers
I will never be a shadow.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!