A house was once a longer acre

Turn it inside out, the house,
lay down a carpet and tread on dirt.
That faucet will keep a village,
a whole one on, thatched blonde on top
like the walls now growing high,
smoothed down, rooted and sour.
A grooved sill there sits collecting
hot water, hot en masse
among its cracked up pieces dirty now
and smeared, balanced as the bloat
of a crooked sun left to starve inside,
the inside prison of men who
ignite their streets if they feel cooped
but build their own, build moats too
that they rarely remember how to cross.
Outside in, sun on ceiling, will but for few
doubtless laze and forget their loss.


~ by Jeremy on December 17, 2010.

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