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The Dead House

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Fireplace blocked,
sealed with
cardboard, and taped.
Furniture trashed,
paneling smashed.
On the second floor

mid-corridor,
a rotting cat
furry and fey
in a nap
of  gore
glued flat

to a spot
on the floor,
ether-sweet
in a frieze of decay,
up-staring, popeyed,
pissed.

The screens I installed
belled out, belled in.
Every window
cracked, broken,
or forgotten, left open.
The in-gusting Atlantic

left smelling sick.
A shade softly crashed
on a sash,
finish nails and a bare
molly bolt fanfared
me from the gloom.

Google the address:
from outer space
it’s a bare green blot,
treeless, erased,
terns where we made love,
gulls where we fought.

Source: Poetry (April 2013)
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The Dead House

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