Intruder

Adam Phillips

In the night house
no one has
the knack of keeping
things quiet;

uncoloured walls fumble,
furniture is posed
in the nothing-snow,
familiar and unreachable,

the depletion of lamps,
the rage of book-shelves,
bits chatter under-
foot in the carpet;

I interrupt walking
through a primitive
community, I muffle
myself for a drink.