Clumps of wet towel console the broken
toilet, here’s a solitary sunken candle
in the handsome claw tub. This old
rug burned away in the bedroom; one
yellow curtain still stinks of fire.
Shame on you, my hanging lady! (the sloppy
fence, she breaks down) when we go
to the yard.
*
The yard, the yard: two rusting
bicycles bend toward each other
and it’s like coming across teenage
bones, young love. At night
I have ghosts rattling in the knife
drawer, uneven ghosts I most regret.
I leave them, damn devils.
They are musical.
They have no place to go.