In every corner of the room, I'll find what doesn't belong. And then, in every room. What I find I'll pile in the middle of the backyard. Once all there, it's set on fire, and I'll turn away to pretend it isn't burning. The heat or horror might well be singeing my hair, but really, I won't care. The attracted winged things might be owls or moths or bats.

My face will cool; my eyes will dwell in
the sulcus of streetlamp
light sealed in the sliding
glass door.

The sharpest edge to skirt is between humility and humiliation. The noise at the very end is the organ spinning down.