BUNGALOW

by Claire Adderholt

you walked through the bungalow packing
deft and stuttered touches

ebb-go of your voice
through mold of ice

no lamps or globes or
loom-spun prayer
to buoy us up –

a quiet that slaughters.

rotted boards
give way underfoot without a sound.


we slide

into open edged space

into bright molecular air

sunshine falls on open planes of wood.