On reading a poem by Edith Sitwell
A tall ladder of a shelf stacked again with wax houses. The house standing for the inner sanctum. An inner private space not easily destroyed, even by fire, allowing room for thoughts to live far away from the exterior self. The house remains intact in spite of outside pressure. The stack is the skeleton; a frame wrapped around with rose thorns. The layers around the house turn to ash maintaining the core – the rest is dross and easily disposable.