Walden, Brookside Apartments, Jackson Street
Love your sooty, sullied hearth. It is your own.
Love the copper ash sighing in the rubbish bin.
Love the raindrops winking in your empty pane, tracing the dying geranium’s tallow arms.
Love the hunchback hippie-nun in 3B, who swears she taught Hemingway the art of drinking.
Love the spirit of the madwoman in your cupboard, whetting her lone candle stub with secrets whispered in the rain.
Love the damp cracks in your ceiling, through which you’ll rise to meet the goddess of your choosing.
Love the leaping kettle’s humming in your veins. It is your own.