the scaffolds bare upon the burnt skin

the hermit wood creaks under the weight of caged hearts, the red beatings lifting the planks, dancing under the nails and leaving the twilight floors behind

the mother is a wasteland with crackling static lightning and 

the father a castaway pounding on his last planks out in the ocean

the child is a hermit crab thieving from the tide rock 

a chrysalis-burning scoundrel, hiding her way up the beach

living for spirals

curling into the hearthwarm of the heartbeat.

The house has blue eyes and dark shutters 

when the the bodies overcome the lightness of the door shackles 

what is the proper pattern following from the asphyxiation of a guard rail, dissecting the chest pieces and fitting the door knockers to the ribs

 grabbing at the matted fingers

 calling it all love.  

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