poems by owen lucas

Doors of the corridor house glow
yellow with the sun's last shout
burst through the pane, pregnant
the ripe white paper walls.
Chalk and litter cross and flicker
the carpet with the open window
blowing dog-whistle breeze inside.
Ashy the stairway's sidling frame,
pickets beneath the banisters brown
boa, spiralling Archimedes pyre,
mahogany scrawling spine. Black
the vacuum's malignant corner,
the graveyard behind the door.
Trees peer in, unconscious gum
eyes chanting down the chimney,
waking children, tickling cracked
music out of pots and pans.
wind chime glasses skittering out
the door into the swaying garden.
The pipes moan and slither,
dust the ducts shook by storm
with grit and cabbage water.
Dappled sunlight scurries off
into the corner to slightly slip
into the deep blue shadow.