The Victorian on Edge
When I scream the carnations rise
above the tors and when I slam
doors the cooling jellies tremble
on my pantry shelves and when I fuck
the man I fuck the house sinks another
foot into the mud There’s no bedrock
to these feelings that whip around
like spirits stuck in bodies they despise,
bodies that never give them what they want:
a house that explodes to splinters.
