Tonight, the house is a series of tricks made from a ticking of dashes and dots. To pass the time, you listen to the rain, try and make some sense of its code.
It is night – you already know that, but that patch of wall burns like the sun.
Now the smoking heads of birds in grey arabesques.
Fingerprints on the mirror, whorls that on a closer look create eclipses on world shaped shadows.
The birds burn in the sun.
The soundtrack = glass that smashes,
vapour from a gun...
A white mug filled with silver shreds of photos
of the moon, its craters.
Someone in the
next room tearing
a strip of paper.
That sharp intake of breath:
the page turning.