A pair of rusted scissors
sticks out of the banister,
I see it as I walk up all the stairs.
The house smells like ammonia,
and their burning hair. This is a lair
where nails pin palms against
the wallpaper, and hold pictures
in place to be looked at
when consumed by the skyline.
The doors are no longer sealed
and the people who lived there
are chained to strangers,
helping volunteers
slide plastic bags over
speakers, so the rain
could never reach.
In the texture of brick walls
they see the faces of the world,
and look away when their
lost days are given back to them.
Dwelling
Teleporting Typewriter 