Heathen heat staunches off tar.

A pious and paunch house full

of February storms, canned goods, 
a broken spring bed, haunch of father’s

static in the led paint. The wood

window frame can taste 
of iron on a tongue. It is a breakwater,

a stanchion for an eye frantic for

framing. Methods of living bore
out in each stucco room.

Father bore heat better.
The dirt track nearby led to the sand

of a dry creek bed. Father once said

if you listen, when it runs,
at dead night you can feel.

I remember splashes of bats

squalling in the gums, 
Great agglomerates, sinkholes

in pink skies.

In outback, houses like
tin souls, covered with skin

become rusty Rorschachs.