It is nothing to click a lighter, hammering down on it to
See a reaction same as lightning arching down from the
Sky. My house is good to me my house my house whose
Windows are propped open like a pair of unblinking eyes
I love my house because she holds me all still and straight
As an arrow against the world throwing itself against those
Irises those corneas white gelatinous and can you imagine
Rifling through memories like rifles propped up in walking
Stick fashion. How tired I grow of precedence and presence
With their crowns and bowers I wear politeness like a mask
I wear masks like the self I wear the self like an impoliteness
I see myself in the gaps between things like the gaps between
Tiles on the floor or the gap between you and me filled only
By damp breath and the knowledge that you know too much
About me to ever let me go The lights in my house buzz like
Insects, the floors slope up and down gentle as fae hills, I roll
My words around my teeth, just like I rumble through her halls
My grief is ambidextrous You are nothing worth speaking of