The ceiling dissolves into sky,
sun reflected in the frozen basement.

An unboiled kettle,
a bird’s nest,
a door handle,
a closet full of shirts.

The tree presses itself close enough to the window
for the branches to pass through the glass.

(From a writing/dance/film project I’m working on in Saskatchewan…

And more on this haunting house published in the newest edition of The Lampeter Review.)