There is a house
on the continent of ice
north of the rumored pole
where the shadows never change.
The amber sun sleeps on the horizon
and seeps its insipid glow
colder than chance
through the empty doors and windows.
Every board has its shadow
but the house has none.
In the perfect frozen air
nothing lives and nothing rots.
The air is a copper red black miasma
like the desert afternoon
when murder was done.
Published on Magnapoets, August 2006.