a fire does not burn
but waits, contained in the hearth
as shadows lengthen behind portraits
of people no one names aloud
alfred peels the orange
not because he is hungry
but because morning requires rhythm
and rhythm is an anchor when cities howl
on the news: a rooftop chase
voices glitch through static
they speak of masks
as if they were weapons, or skin
in the hall—
a coat is hung back on its hook
with rain that
never reaches this far up the hill
and in the study
the grandfather clock ticks
not as time
but as a door
.