They pass the light bulbs. They pass the fan blades.
A ricochet behind the ceiling of honey hardened
to lacquer. Deep in the wall’s secret heart,
they muster sweetness into martial law.
They pass the doorjamb. The window
latch. They bore into the shuttered eye.
The coverlet. They pass the traps.
They eat the mice and fight
the ants. The floorboards’
pulse and thrum. Look.
They pass the joists.
The limbs. The skin.
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