I built my road inwards
‘neath a colour of slate.
Weeds sprung from my footsteps to obliterate.
Within walls i have a baby grand lying on its side,
its plexus in methodical confusion.
Here no feet-fall fathom
no birds drop,
only the walls crack with a knuckular sound
dribbling slow sand.
Through the only window facing west
a weak sun swabs a sky of menstrual blood.