Cigarette smoke twelve
miles from the ocean and the birds
in the wall are beginning to escape. One
by one. They always leave the box
behind, the telegrams and empty
envelopes. All of it flimsy and so
much missing. The hoax of relic bones
and the goddess of hinges are buried
in the still frozen ground. This is
a hard fact: appetites make
bad wives. It is unmistakable:
when the room forgets
its dimensions they shine like silver
keys. A scheme luminous as a pearl.