Sometimes the night returns with a vengeance
grows dense with dark animosity
into the small hours with groans from the stairs,
their mellow timber sighs against the brickwork
or snaps in the contraction of the cold.
Shutters scrape on rusty hinges
and worn planks grumble in the trunk of the house,
that shifts in its sleep from side to side,
its outer walls eager to hold all the inner parts,
potions plundered of earth and the living world.
Unrelated oxides fused to make glass,
pressed into window frames by mutilated trees,
marble, carved into shiny mantelpieces
with lamps welded from unwilling metals,
powdery plaster fixed by water into a brittle firmness
unnatural to both.
Aching elemental parts are getting restless,
stretch to find their former selves
as a human brain stilled by sleep allows its inner core
to be purged by recurring dreams.
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