the ceiling buckles and blooms.
every rain through the gaps in the roof-tile,
comes snaking down
fiberglass like forgotten cotton candy
gnawing softness into the wood until
the hollows of it become a home for wasps.
i watch the stains creep out from
under the edges of the windowsill,
coffee on cream,
a bullseye rash
soft boils to pop under my finger.
can you show me where he touched you?
the kitchen fuzzes into color:
white and green and grey,
the smell sweet-sour-sharp and
heavy with unwanted life.
i stop peeling lids
no need to describe the fridge
you know how to make a poem of it:
something about the cold unfriendly light
plastic packaging and
expiration dates.
i'm not afraid to et cetera
more dangerous waste
off the shelf and into the trash.