still building (xv – xx)     xv. from furnace heated words – we would send small papers to secret systems knowing not the start of flames for sure the bottom of the house holds us up ask how drawers denote disorder don’t know   sounds start down here   when swept dust adjusts its frame of reference   do tell: everything in its place     xvi. watch them, wash them exposed pipes but still mystery coffin caught in the minds of too young apples and salt cellars make jailed opportunities of insecurity you’ll have to go downstairs with a floor the colour of street confused by its cold and oldest the rooms light intent by floral overexposure and a faux window a mirror rusts insects corner memories     xvii. work hard so many jars they made this place, primed it dust sheets / enrapture locked in lists she carves the same in hale, here wood perspires heave hard               still building / work is done     xviii. coming clean a game of maids played by two who would spend future years as cashiers, the dirty money of the city staining hands wiped on cotton smocks (all for food) learnt to dial heavy duty fast fast the signs shown by bodies not known by fathers when they trade jeans among children so hers shrink, the dryer lied and softens but he smoothes corners knows just how much soap carefully calls out to clarify mom loves clotheslines but always skips the second rinse hang three sweater and think folding over older this is how i know you now     xix. stair down as steeped as time those trips friends make and us so certain one after another in the end another story     xx. my room hates yellow that of aching corners and begs for the white of page (the wait pulls) curves a small dent cushioned  quarrels that find their only air in holds made and wholes forgotten   let me switch off this trying light   sadness lets you find pills peeking form the floor stand bare backed and cold wondering if your friends know   and admit it the carpet quiets such so close to day   listen: do i detect the next step   the rest of the room siphons sun that draws the walls a morning page turns colours (the tension of prisms) small sounds me staying here a blinking cursor is that alarm   let cut edges lean into one another   glassed dreams contain wait and years store or shatter the clamour that marks and makes an age   so shelve me bed accessory to time says still building   surround sound     - Emily Fedoruk