With nothing to do
I went exploring.
The James house is stately, old- I think of it
when I read Walcott.
Disjecta membra.

There is nothing so sinister
as Mr. Tumnus behind any of its doors
(what is literature for if not allusions?),
but there are enough doors
to keep a stranger busy for hours.
Days, even.

And that is what I had been doing during my midyear cool mornings and stifling afternoons.