Skin

i am as haunted as a house;
these eaves weren’t built for me.
i join the spider and the mouse
in solidarity.

when the shutters move,
i am the wind;
i am the love
they leave behind

on the table set for seven,
joined for tea by one,
multiplied by heaven
and settled in the sun.

wound supine beneath this floor,
these planks move with my blood,
stretching my heart around the door
to search the rusted lock for food.

a caterpillar in a jar, pulsing in a firmament
behind doors of bolted brass,
if there is to ever be denouement
-disendow my instar
from the glass.