half-drawn blinds, light in strips,
floating
dust, and viscous, roosting curtains.
Shadows lurk in corners, jump out
in the afternoon rattling the house.
A red, phosphorescent telephone
illuminates with each call from the beyond.
Long cord on the terrazzo (yellow
with grey chips) from the fitted carpet
to the lounge to the hallway to the kitchen
(solid marble sink, feta cheese
stuck in the strainer, smell of green soap)
the light from the fridge left half-open.
The voice of butter crying in the
wilderness.
Outside the window, lunatic asylum TV
antennas
blather all together, but each one yells
its own.
And every nightfall, the windows clatter
in remote and yellow conversations
lest they graze the scorching, frozen
boulevards.
Locked up people, listening to locked-up
people.
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