Felice Averno

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

Waste ground sacrament

The mouth
of childhood
is laughter, liquorice dark

Teeth stained long after
you spit it out

The aniseed taste of droning dragonflies 
over the scry and gravel heat
of waste ground

Iron where you bit your cheek

A sting

The twisty shape
        and thick
             as mudded rope

Barbed wire and glowing jimson weed
in caduceus tangling

Step heavily

lift your feet