The Moon Eats Me in My Living Room

[rayheinrich]

A silver bell hovers
above the skylight—
louder in the earth
than my ears.

It sinks,
slowly through the ceiling
like a dime descending 
to the ocean floor

then engulfs the colour
off the off-white walls
washed in my lamp’s vanilla cast

and piece by piece
pulls the whole house 
between it's lips.

Only me and it remain—
a sunless earth
stalked by the moon.

I feel it's concaves
colliding with mine.
like two tectonic plates
uncompleting each other,
a hole inside a hole.

(Excuse me for not taking much time with this.)

I think it needs saying that many of these critiques are biased towards
linear narrative. The negative critiques of expressionists or Rilke or
Eliot or etc. seem similar.

For instance:

A silver bell hovers
above the skylight—
louder in the earth
than my ears.

Is subject to many wonderful interpretations.
I like it as is.
If a bell can't be louder in the earth, then fogs can't have cat feets and ghosts can't be places
your sight can knock on (approximately Eliot, Rilke [both revered cat poets and I revere cat poets ]).