I alarm myself
when I walk
into someone’s house
that, at first,
resembles a
sugared peach,
sweet as
Orient Miscellany,
burning incense
of air,
to then discover
radical change;
sweetness
disappearing
like a rainbow,
as noticable as
a midnight
velvet sky
that is like
the black-toned
Bagheera.
Change of air,
like walking into
a morgue,
as unsubtle as a
sledgehammer, or
like being between
the hammer
& the anvil.
It is then
that I find that
in some manner
of peculiarity
I am unable to
walk away
from the house
that is like
a putrid litter-box,
somehow
unable to move,
as if I were
standing on
a sandy isthmus,
contemplating
both sides
of the coin.
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