Small House

Tucked between
the seems

of hardwood
floor: this

ill heat,
its imagination.

Each footstep
grating the planks,

this voice
growing hoarse.

The future
haunts our

speech: wake
to find

our name
carved into

the floorboard,
our teeth

burrowed in
the dirt,

the sickness
crawling out

our mustache.
We don’t

have a mustache.

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