Falling House

The melodramatic mansion

lurches oceanward over the cliff.

Lavish dead

pull the ropes.

The seashore’s children watch

with hope,

eager to be freed of those

patterned windows,

the eyes tuned to the frequency

of geometry.

In the elevator shaft,

a wind separated from the herd.

Prey waiting for pressure.

In the dumbwaiter,

relics of service.

The slippers in the catastrophic

laundry chute

are warmer than they’ve

ever been.

By the old hearth,

music divorced from the

phonograph.

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