Empty spaces multiply daily
More solid than a home.

Wound up
Like mechanical mice
We scurry about
Hoarding furniture

Four cats in a thimble
One husband on a shelf
A friend between lines
The baby on a finger,

To feed our traps.

The spaces deepen.
They bloom
from the walls, the ceilings.

Winter arrives
Like an unwanted letter.

The last plant dies
A name slips off the door,

Snow falls
Wrapping the house

Beside mounds
Of old newspapers;

Six years
Empty themselves.