The Hut
Austere interior
Was the first to get noticed
Like needle sliver
It revolved around the whiteness
Blunt sounds
Of hammer against pillows
They woke me up
Each morning on the turquoise lagoon
I too wallowed in
The freckled terrain, dry
As the
Driest lips I had ever tasted
Gleams were puny
Rivaled no experienced headlights
But they
Shook me back to consciousness
That house
With its amplified windows
And paintings
That were its pale-blue eyes
I made myself
All tunnels of mould and cobwebs
Where the palaver
Always died out on the staircase
