Poem: Sepulchre

The spectres
of the forty-second house
in yellow hallways,

echoing stairwells,
the nape of my neck,

memories repeated
on each isolated island
and murmurs of words
in my head, in my head,
not like a lightswitch
that my fingers barely touch
with my hand outstretched
around a dark corner.

Each nail in each floorboard
once held between two fingers.
A body came with them;
it is down the hallway, still,
waiting for each board
to be buried.