#simoncostello

You tell me to leave it on, in case a culprit cuts a portal in the window, grows a shadow on our landing. So I blast it

to ten, & the six o’clock cracks the walls with a quake in China, a ring of dealers sewing cocaine into hems,

a passenger plane leaving black crumbs over the Andaman. These scenes render themselves to the rooms, ghost the locks

with disembodied words from blue-faced static, and when we return even out in the dark

we see the eyes of the house bright with conversation, hear our telly talking to itself, making us think we might catch

strangers in the act, huddled around its mouth, staring down its throat.