The House with No Corners

I walked into a house with no corners,

Where the walls breathed slow like sleeping whales.

The floor was made of moth-wing lace,

And clocks grew flowers from their faces.

Chairs floated gently in conversation,

Whispering secrets in lavender tones.

A cat with four shadows read me a poem

That ended before it began.

Windows opened into yesterday,

Where I watched myself eat a blue sun.

It tasted like forgotten names

And warm metal.

I smiled anyway.

In the kitchen, the sink was crying—

It missed the rain, it said.

I held its faucet like a hand

And told it everything evaporates eventually.

Upstairs, the hallway led sideways.

Doors opened into oceans,

Forests, train stations,

And one room filled entirely with mirrors

That only reflected strangers.

I didn’t wake.

I just stepped out the front door,

Which had been inside me all along,

And walked into a sky

That folded itself neatly

Behind my heels.