this house is empty. by Lorelei Bacht
no wind.
nothing ribbons in the willows.
a crimson moon rises, skirted with orange smokes.
glass frogs sing the cedar to sleep, every peal a window.
silent searchlights: handfuls of fireflies circulate a shiver through closing corollas.
a swarm of bats stretches and beats the last purple of clouds into dull gleams.
up north, a pinhole scintillates.
this house is empty.
and so, it is mine – because i need it.
Lorelei Bacht's recent work has appeared and/or is forthcoming in Mercurius, Anti-Heroin Chic, Menacing Hedge, Beir Bua, Sinking City, Barrelhouse, SWWIM, The Inflectionist Review, After the Pause, and elsewhere. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter: @bachtlorelei