An eidetic willow reads the house,

chuckles at the acts, bends in tension

having a sneak peek at the knives

kept in a leash inside the blindfold of drawers.

 

Today it follows the house-daughter’s narrative

sprawled all over the living room, stairs,

and even between the couches’ operose clefts.

And even in the couches’ cleavages.

for a moment her face floats up to the caliginous pane.

 

If the tree would make a scrapbook with those

the pages would expunge the moments every Autumn.

The knives would remain. The face – in some orphanage.

Death grows up to be death.

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