The Fall Returns

the rooms are chosen, then they move on the beads are wetted in the lime the weedlot boils in the blood of one eye the children first are cankered then they spin there are not routes, only dials the rocks are spun together in one ball the laundry is of rust, the pillow shrieks pianos all blow northward and return must be a bath if  I could find it is a map of all the ways that center intermission skulls are simply caps for all compression day’s light raising closets for its dark I put up the clothes and trail the keys that onyx knob in vacuum turns the train pressure on the pitches swaying back again a world without a heartbeat but it stays