Page house

Context — It’s been eight months since I wrote… that should not happen again.


The walk was light, as if the light too strolled
through air just warm enough to not exist.
It stopped, like me, when wrapping aureole
round house that styled itself as narcissist.
Victorian in mold, its excess dripped
anachronistically to fairytales
where tophat gentlemen with rabbits quipped,
umbrellas up through chimneys float females.
I shrank, my inattention ebbing age,
the haloed home mushrooming in my mind
as every fancy adulthood encaged
was disentombed by accidental shrine.
In instant salaried me turned covetous–
and reverie soured sepia to pus.