18.
living room
clandestine meetings in the low
that no one knows about until i tell them

and the television's always stout
and full of ire
looks at me unselfishly
and spits

i can stick my head inside the static
turn to drizzle

but it won't let me forget
i can't be loved in every circle

it's the law
and i must eat it all

i help myself write it down




19.
and the passage in the oven
we can hear it from the living room
the grass, the guests and i

biting maps
clattering to call us
intricate and partially unsafe

as it rumbles in its nest of empty tape ribbons
as it sculpts with all the older spiderwebs
saturating in the space between two places

sometimes i keep myself an inch above the floor
in bathroom with no light
or the cabinet church

i ponder secretly
the maybe of the evergreens

the howling of the guests at all those times
is trapped inside
it wanders over sudden floorboards
even after i have swept

the oven isn't any closer
it's just subtle




20.
i guess i should be worried that the guests are gone

it's not because a spiral staircase has been haunting me
or from the quiet way the climate holds itself
but i believe in everything that isn't me

they wandered off into the pipes
they're getting raucous and indulgent in my house
all the miles that i've bought to line the walls

what will happen
how ambitious do i feel

i stick my head into an opened up
and i'm expecting deer
i'm expecting pieces of another
somehow grateful

i expect to be surprised
but i'm full of ancient wine

in my throat i feel a digging

i tell the tv
i am worried that the guests are gone
i am worried that the guests are gone

i am worried that the guests are gone

but it only ever trembles
and refrains itself

all the while the voices in the pipes
are waiting til i try to sleep

_

ELEANOR HAZARD is a bat, and lives where there are ghosts. leaves small fires at 
eleanorhazard.tumblr.com.