Perspective

The chimney sits at an angle that would fall

if gravity applied to waxy blue.

The walls are shaky lines of heavy red

where the pressure of the hand pushed through.

The windows are lopsided, vacant eyes.

Nothing meets exactly at the edge;

the grass is just a row of angry spikes

planting green knives underneath the ledge.

And in the corner, a jagged, yellow sun

with saw-blade rays that cut into the sky.

It looks like a place where no one lives,

a bright, hard house that tells a better lie.