Sick cacti folded inside fungus shrouds
like a summer house in winter
when the furniture is hushed in cloth.
Roof with its shingles stripped off, porcelain
with its century rinsed in snowmelt.
Even the spoons collect their light like sleep.
This is not your house, not your bowl
of disarticulated crinoid stems, not the green
phosphorescence of terrarium moss
so spring it hurts your eyes.
These are not your woods, not your striped
tree snails, not your oxygen whose
eddies drift so fluently between the lungs
of certain molluscs, man.
Hybrid forms, shiny parabolas everywhere.
This is not your earth.