Dollhouse

He takes off the front of the house and peeks.A thimble of flowers, the clock face’s delicatenumbering. She sits alone, hair beginning to flutterin the weather of his breathing. There are recesseshis hands can’t reach, but he sees everything. Underskirtsand porcelain waist. Stays unlaced. Sharp little starsof her teeth. At night, sneaking from his wife’s side,he lifts the roof, lifts the quilt under which she sleeps.Yes, she lies in the bed where she was placed,hollow, not even tossing. Owner of the house, pocketerof its thumbnail key, he knows that she knowsno door is an opening. He sees it in the way the jointsof her arm stiffen sometimes. Sees it, in bed again,in the bead twitching behind his wife’s eyelid.