dwelling
again my brother calls in the middle of Property Brothers
to tell me he can build a better house. a blue house with a bluer door
& a hundred noiseless windows where i can live overlooking the sea.
a writing desk. sheets of sun stacked to the ceiling like paper. miniature
rooms hidden inside every doorknob, one with a library the size
of my thumb, fleabane vased in barnacles.
i could live there, i say. in the house built in the company of tv static
& other troubled men. feces on the walls & pillows soaked in piss,
jumpsuit removed & toothpaste spread over one man’s genitals.
yes, even there, my brother thought beauty. even there, resting
besides a hemingway novel on the bookshelf, will be an immaculate
little dwelling for his urn.
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