It is the same house, the same backyard,

shrunken in the eyes of just now

The leaking roof of the sky discolors

the illusions I hung above its attic of clouds

over a neighborhood leaning to one side


What happened here has been recorded

in memory cells, on scratch pads, but is

a work of fiction written outside time

The solid numbers once nailed vertically

on the banister have grown italic


The skin of the shadow opening the front door

feels of mold and fear, its breath harsh

Some of the people who sat on the sofas,

slept in the beds, ate at the table, are dead,

their words and syntax muted in banter

that rattles the china in the hallway curio


I hovered but never lived inside

this foreign country where I woke

in mornings shaken by psychotic bees

I am not of this place; the trees

do not remind me of shade or breezes

where kisses are exclamation points


I must be a case of delivery to

an existence intended elsewhere

On another block must hang a leaf

with my name scribbled on it

in streaks of rain


The street sign I fly past has gone blank

and knowing I am misplaced

I turn mystic and set a course

far distant