Crimson Lake House.
The homeplace returns. It's his eyes that shift in the
part of a primary haunting. This, the first space / person
the unspoken room by room of it. Blue print of a face at every window.
She climbs the steps
from coal-bin to attic where shadows stretch and the doll cries sound
A high round window looks out on the lake. Blurred quiver of glass, a
deformation of sorts.
His better-to-see-you-with parts dilate, twittering old twilight closing
She had to see this house once more imply like a slice of the family
incubus in the smudged lower left corner, who's-who of the
stud-stable still breathing.
Feel the dead weight of a dead star, the first star hung until morning.