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.)