Nine Lines for A Fictitious House

In a house where the trees grow too close to the windows,
the shadows in the hall clock seem set to late winter
afternoons, even in the depths of summer.

In a room upstairs, the street light through the
branches stutters across the carpeted floor
like a drift of birds, dancing over old photographs

of strangers.
There is a kingdom in the chimneys.
I tap the wall to topple its throne.