Mercedes Lawry / Imminent Collapse Slowly, the house is falling down, even as I breathe in and out, bruised apricots in a bowl in a crease of pale sun. Wind pushes at the windows and I suppose a spectacle of shards, removing the skin between inside and out. The furies will rush to find me, no longer needling at bricks and warped boards, at rotting caulk and hollow doors. Reaching for my bones, my hands like useless wings now. Full flush of weather, teeth revealed, false refuge peeled away. I see black clouds gather to the north. I listen to the tidal groans of the walls.