The house has eyes
A sunburned peel of paint
The silver underneath
Of unevening decay
Summer slaps me down
Pulls air from my lungs
Huffs it out with the ghosts
Of dandelions, each withered dance
Asbestos dry and sharp
As any dust-devil resistance
I hide within, the screen door scrape
Of your hinged words, a growling cringe
The air softly sieved
Into wormed cascades, rejoined again
As if, like poems
The old, familiar sounds
Were made anew
Pull-to the door
A haze of half-closed days
A fine meridian
Seems to say
Abandon hope
All who venture here
