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The Memory Palace

The Memory Palace THE MEMORY PALACE /Colin Hamilton for there is no place that does not see you. --Rilke THE DOORKNOB extends a hand in greeting. Like your hand, it's scarred. When you shake it, you know: someone with small teeth has been trying to get out. THE DOG beats time against the wall: thump-thump-thump-thump. She needs you to see past her wet, dark gums, past her tongue to the place where these hot, scented storms are brewing. they don't steam up. Your eyes aren't windows after all. No matter how close she pants, The Missouri Review · 254 THE JAR filled with seashells sits in a corner. but who can say whether sand is becoming glass or glass becoming sand? Past Sand dusts the inside of the jar, the sand are shells, each perfect and the same: polished, slit cylinders speckled black and brown. When you uncork the jar, but fireflies dim beside your bed. THE LIGHT the sound of waves doesn't drown the house, doesn't shatter the window, but takes its form, tunneling through the room to cut a brilliant patch of carpet. Ten billion particles of dust, of skin inhabit the light, yet this far end of the http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

The Memory Palace

The Missouri Review , Volume 20 (2) – Oct 5, 1997

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Publisher
University of Missouri
Copyright
Copyright © The Curators of the University of Missouri.
ISSN
1548-9930
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

THE MEMORY PALACE /Colin Hamilton for there is no place that does not see you. --Rilke THE DOORKNOB extends a hand in greeting. Like your hand, it's scarred. When you shake it, you know: someone with small teeth has been trying to get out. THE DOG beats time against the wall: thump-thump-thump-thump. She needs you to see past her wet, dark gums, past her tongue to the place where these hot, scented storms are brewing. they don't steam up. Your eyes aren't windows after all. No matter how close she pants, The Missouri Review · 254 THE JAR filled with seashells sits in a corner. but who can say whether sand is becoming glass or glass becoming sand? Past Sand dusts the inside of the jar, the sand are shells, each perfect and the same: polished, slit cylinders speckled black and brown. When you uncork the jar, but fireflies dim beside your bed. THE LIGHT the sound of waves doesn't drown the house, doesn't shatter the window, but takes its form, tunneling through the room to cut a brilliant patch of carpet. Ten billion particles of dust, of skin inhabit the light, yet this far end of the

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Oct 5, 1997

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