By 4, no sky.
under the stairs,
my little gang
of ghosts
drink lamb’s cream,
and
guinness from cupped
skulls; dad
beheads
a red
cabbage
and is chanting
his bloodline
down a yellow pipe;
frank is converting
mexico to
iodine and black
lace; henry
patrols the line
from Ormskirk
to Oswestry. Mr
Pallot’s moustache
is on the vegas cross
pleading
in Gaelic
for another chance
to find
the square root
of nothing.
The house itself
is pooling
spite
into a new
celebration
of shadow.

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