WHEN YOU GO
There is, of course, silence,
Even with the phone's ringer on.
Rooms open like an
For asylum-seeking mice. My job is
To check the
underside of shadows
With a mirror attached to a pole.
Nothing seems to
terrorize me more
Than the moon's queer intentions,
Light dangling from my earlobes.
I poke the very thought
In the broken fireplace,
Pry myself and the
From a web of your saliva.
Let me polish your
With woodlice and malice
Until I see my mother's face on every surface.
The wind blows,
See how dusty this house gets?
I pick up a broom and
Your foot prints from the floor.
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