|© Beth Roberts|
Something's molting within this house all season,
monsoon or dry heat, every day I hop to repeat per
formance. I pick up the cast-off, make it stay
up, straighten the ruffed-up and tilted, the wilted
leaves, crooked horizon with eyes on the tv
I fix it all with open air and keep it there, still
the dust drapes and rots in socks, his ashes trail,
not tumbleweeds these with instruction per creation,
temperature and duration. The bottle
caps wanna be seeds. There's a hat rack in the hall
with something dead behind it. A bright spread
on the sofa that creeps off till I knife it
still over the gross abstraction beneath it.
Ugly bulk, calm yourself. What's here is clear.
There's a hole in the bucket, dear,
a river in the foyer. There's a heart in the kitchen
where you harried. There are souls in the closet
that are married, and twins in the coat
tree in the bedroom, albeit buried.