a nebula of flowers has self-abased,
its spent petals circle a jam jar,
their genus lost.
i’ve been instructed on the
benefaction of decay—
the merciless cues.
i read birthday letters with
my eyes closed and pack
postcards from Spain into
in the kitchen sink a blushing
cork locates north and a stale
paddock as empty as a punch line.
i wrap chipped plates in headlines,
let one break into alien continents,
its own atlas.
i enter a room with a made bed.
the ivory sheets remain an effigy
for buckled limbs and midnight cake.
outside, cars play their games.
the neighbour’s grey dog lets itself be known.
Summer carols on, indistinct.
The House Went Quiet
1 May 2014