the gutters are slick with moss

a bunch of tulip bulbs lies discarded in the yard,

with roots tangled like hair in a drain

and dad’s let the jasmine grow absolutely mental this year.
returning to my childhood, home i find

pyjamas starched, at least two sizes ago,

a deflated football, smelling of wet and ants.

the Wild Bouquet Air Wick muscles its way into my nostrils

and the walls remain standing, but they’re shaky on their pins,

like they’ve had one too many,

and sway like the fish line string

of a marionette puppet.
I collapse dully onto the bed of my dead brother

and the unslept sheets send up a plume of dust,

like a cloud, or an embrace.
open the window begging to be warmed by a light that isn’t there –

it rains.