I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.
As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them. I am out in the open.
And above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they've intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.
All photographs by Baya Clare, CSJ unless otherwise noted.