still building (viii – xiv)     viii. den draws us out of quiet key that fits in answer too   someone stays left hand draws behind past years drawers of swords   left unsaid trade tools books and breath a relic, outdoors   spins dream dust down from ceiling stacks maybes long see   a million cords can’t tell me click quiet like a mouse   stare two screens emily is industrious fedoruk works choose titles, monitor   in names sadness scrawls a poet tuned to close calm     ix. well played She speaks loudly and holds court crouched small among thrones My mother wants a circus still The sheer vagueness of gauze curtains is secure. The ground swamps years of stifling awed audience we squint at others, tell a vision. Child of artist stomach presses floor hard from laughs book covers balance liquids mock the tracks made by her spills. They close them grown to cupboards. Stand and wait, a heavy clock.     x. living relatives my two sisters speak and sound like dad three pillars, mysteries   how the house is balances by acoustics   but we block them dance the track whole lengths   like waves   lines cut silence                                       small sheets of butter coloured glass a blunt trident and times tried                                     to see through gets up an leaves                                     the future of houseplants   and records of this (right room for living)     xi. chimes in square backed and so wanting to be strong doors like that swing of the axe   Instead they carry on bags umbrellas she slides shoes to wait for me tomorrow I take a long look two mirrors to say goodbye a double wide entry prolongs as long as you’re here you should stay     xii. if the porch could talk it says at least I’m holding my own not just a get away those letters home come back, add up to twenty as in any return a state of the self address     xiii. Jeff, my basement brother. we stand in a house of 1929 and a family of four . . . [and] I would hate to stand in the way of development.   i sit still along the lines his blanket makes                                                             we would hold soft satin corners hard until they corroded angle remote, know better than to touch a pile of books two heads rest read to move and replace to erase my shape                                                             rubber dust and drawing, he writes ‘we attended art camp’ friends lie she says sounds of instruments left hanging                                                                                                 we got the jazz, share cds, could neaten the past, like I said, tell a vision                                                                                                 play along harmonize young punks rejects protection sister gets jumped and                                                             looks for lines near him, in his wake he draws blinds says most people won’t hurt you but i argue i’m cornered                         play at grass above, the end drawn by tiny hands held fascinated at that spot says i hear everyone that comes into this house waits small face at window but listen i’m true     xiv. a closet that outgrows dress ups calls costumes of rows of standard American tshirts hung on identical ikea wooden hangers two are heaters gleam smiling boxes keep baring teeth constantly showing something new walls work in a soft mustard but he doesn’t like it so store it forgotten technology their shells are cyclical draw back that pink lace curtain imagine a dead man under chosen without her consent subjective our children’s books reduced to whispers soft Styrofoam sunken into makes ships of furniture in floods hear that the yellow is the same as an old blind knowing the stereo starts here       - Emily Fedoruk