of me for you to live in.
Doors are everywhere.
The walls are roaring
flames sucking stale air.
You can’t enter.
I burn myself out.
You’d never know
a house was ever there.
2012
of me for you to live in.
Doors are everywhere.
The walls are roaring
flames sucking stale air.
You can’t enter.
I burn myself out.
You’d never know
a house was ever there.
2012
Nicely writ.
Very tactile, this. “The walls are roaring / flames sucking stale air” is a scorcher of a fulcrum for the poem, which smoulders very nicely around that couplet.