Houses
All I see
are rows of houses
with sharp-cut edges
to get caught on.
Line upon line
which house
those partaking
in the becoming
of the world.
Yet, the world
becomes without
a thought to what
it houses.
What houses me?
Blooded bones,
cell-filled skin,
and the snap
of an electrical synapse?
It seems an awful
lot of effort to dwell
inside a house
within a house
without changing the
one we all live in.
