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.