there is a house in the wet of my softly stirring mind slick with fiction, its breath slow and heavy i want to wilt under the porch, i want to urge the sun in the front room out of sullen memory knots that form inside of you when you look away small miracles stir awake a grudge, a gratitude the past is its own apocalypse some extract the house in a process of becoming thru absence words have an order or a lattice only to be destroyed of their intentions remembered just as a claim to interstitial kingdoms like there’s rooms that are active only in the demand recollected a photo of a photo glare accretes tomorrow a fire destroys the rest of the suburb tills a sorrow language out of silt, hardly shocked by what our former names cannot keep: small testimonials recovered from borrowed books now owe us the hollow of sleep in lieu of a voice a bus route outs the crusted shell you slept in information picks up again. you & i almost know enough to leave without this to consume you