The house is sinking quietly into the muck.
And the people who haven't noticed are talking in the kitchen;
one of them waiting for toast,
the other holding lukewarm coffee.

The parakeet peers from the tin wired to the cage wall,
tips her yellow head to the left.

The cat door falls back thwunk,
the cat already hopping onto the couch,
adjusting himself to the haired hollow of the red pillow.

As the house settles deeper
the water level in the toilet tank
shifts and for half a moment the nozzle hisses out
water enough to put things right.

The clock without numerals seems to say three
when really it's one to three.

The mountains bounded by an oak frame
creep a geologic nanosecond from the wall.

The mother walks uphill to the kitchen door,
though she's not breathing hard,
and uphill all the way to the baby's room.

She pushes the curtains and sunlight lands on the baby's closed face.
One of his fists hangs tighter to the dream
as it pulls away from him.