Trespassing, asleep, I
Weave weakened wicked hands
Into chain-link built new
Built custom
Since I left
I circle the point where I know
Your house must still be
And it’s still your house
Even if you don’t live there anymore
Either
There’s no fire, just the smell
Of smoke, black ash by sight alone raising
Hair and temperature
My skin doesn’t know how
To sweat through goosefleshy flesh
I make a pile of rocks by the gate
As if certain that you’ll see them
And when you do, they’ll fly
Into every one of your windows
Broken glass singing songs in my voice