you can hear it
inside a house
when the water drips down ceilings
and the walls are frozen grey
like asphalt
dust

but you wait and it’s spring
and the vomits turn pink
and little girls run down rose coloured ways
past the alleys always dark

you sigh
it’s summer again
and the flames escape
down chimneys
and ashes turn soil
into sand

and before you’re dead
it’s autumn again
and it’s brown
and moist and cold
and decay, and rust and we die
slow