by Bridget Collins

This house is disappearing. One day
I will come home and the windows will
have faded into clarity, the wobbles of glass
still remaining, imprinted on air.
The stairs will be a smear of shadow,
the bannisters a line of hinted whiteness
dappled across grass. I will stare and stare. My
curtains will be only a flutter of bright fabric
held to earth by a painted splinter.

I will come home and slip my key into the lock
that will not be there, and I will look up.