there is a telltale heart beating

a syrupy-slow blues rhythm

under the wooden slats of this porch

gone splintery and grey as Spanish moss

from the sun and rain; touch carefully

the boards that rot

sickly sweet as wounds, this is

a dying living thing

pulse vanishing beneath the skin of vines

and do not tread too heavy

you might shatter a bone

there is no mystery to this soon-to-be-corpse of

a building, no

chalk outline except for spray-painted numbers

there is nothing to unravel

(the wind is doing a pretty good job of that already)

here lie the remains of your inattention


and don’t forget