An earthquake with no loss of
lives. But the three godforsaken porcelain
ducks on the goddamn mantelpiece
are no longer irreducibly aligned.
The whole house resembles her son’s
room. Objects existing in plentiful
chaos. Peaceful cohabitation is catastrophic
contingency, catastrophic or not. Every room
is the anticipatory aftermath of an explosion.
Will have been messier than words.
Have been will find her blank mind
excessively full with the real terror
of desire which shapes her thoughts
Before she thinks. ‘I’ is the local
cosmos stool-animal barfing back at itself
until uneventfully falling apart
constellation of dim flickering lights
in purest darkness blink
unconvincingly and blacken absolutely.
Realigned porcelain ducks disappear
beneath reconfiguring dust. Sometimes
something moves, usually
the quiet is close to the absolute
silence written about in places.
‘In’ corrodes every wall of the house
as if there were ever inside.
