the edge

havent written it yet

 

figurines in my mothers closet,

air being breathed. hearts in

tubes of oily waxen darkness

 

a hand approaches the moon

stopping

then proceeding once again

 

staring taxidermed owl dead above the door

the elderly's

fragiliity escorts the light

from a lamp

 

the moon still

the

sound of a hand moving to open a window

 

october

espectant piano, the closet door

announces opening slowly