half awake, it is three in the morning and

the house is fully alone. each room is cordoned

off into awkward, pointy fourths that meet

tentatively in the middle, each triangular intersection

a different alligator. each sound is godless and

muted, reverberating off the walls and floors, split

into thirds at the crossbeams. the lightbulbs shiver

and spit out cubes of light. the wind folds the flag out front

into silly eighths. whispers from the rest of the world

shimmy into the house through the gap where the door

just don't touch the floor by a scant sixteenth of an inch.


the secret meeting held in the basement goes on, uninterrupted;

all the pets and bugs go free; it is three in the morning and the

house has got the full measure of itself, which is much more than

man can say