in a little ranch house. A dark and
dusty spot under the rooftop. I’m static. No
movement around me. No talking mouths
or walking feet. Clumsily shaped

and out of place of the living space. Here
I expose my rafters, in the silence of no
man’s laughter. Boxes stacked and sealed. Past
years all concealed. If my walls did speak, they'd

drip stain teardrops of red and bleed
as a reed in the wind through the ceiling of
women and men.