the chinking on the cottage is riddled
filled with mice nests and beards of moss.
i fear what is inside; no one
ever goes inside.
i crunch through the waterlogged door: inside,
two rosy cups perch on the edge of coasters.
inside, fermented tea swirls slowly in the wake
of a cold draft pouring through the chimney
inside, a dingy lemon has crystallized.
the cream long since curdled, stiff and green, inside
of rippled pink glass with slender handles.
the inside of the sugar writhes with dark spots
many-legged stomachs gleeful, insides crunching