Smell wet wool. I dunno, tin and copper

metal. It fades after we’re in the house for awhile-

Anyway, I measured what was left, the skids

of what oddly survived

A good piece of my deb gown.

A loner girly me asleep under a vie en noir,

which would be funny now if these detours

didn’t entail the actual death of this place.

The pox on our house! I dunno

(the difference between feeling bad about it,

or how I could not feel bad about it.)

The funny is my ace. Like the email you wrote re:

annoying words from your trips. I’m going to be embarassed

to see Papa, the smell of gin & tonic. Gramma’s wig

will be less comic and more sad. The breath on our heels

like the basis of choice by choice, how to live now

I’d wrapped myself in that house. Tied

under the chin, a bonnet or an istle net

to haul up, among the pinky ash-

you and Mom before an ohia scene

on your honeymoon

I guess it’s just the level of dirt. Obviously

a vox pop or we wouldn’t be here, hazy

Let’s just get done, pick up this shit and I’ll go


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