+=+=+=+=+=+

Whole storerooms of quiet
are now filled with birdcrash
comfortably the sinews pull away
from ceiling corners
to a latticework of painted milk
phony flowers
are more than beautiful enough

vinyl stems and polyester blossoms
point to an earth piled higher
above, magma of fecundity
roaring to mute

my grandmother cried in these rooms
because potpourri
had not died to scent in her hands
no matter how many thatched wooden boxes

no matter how many icicles are ignored, falling
past the windows drizzling lightspeed
squirrels impaled
to treat the treed and pampered cat
to an extra snack, if it can climb its way down