Cornicecopier by Ariel Riveros

The home fittings clicks, creaks and squeaks are each sounding like the rhythm of words and tonight the pipes rang out a surname. No one I know. Probably a business owner. 

I still don't bestow handles and switches with the tenor of a voice. Still just fitting textures as if percussive hardware could speechwright by a non utterance. The elsewhere echo of wooden and washer closure I make an address for. 

Soon the house will form complete sentences and wither when I don't reply. The walls are too full to speak. A history of novelists inscribed marketplace eros and my opportunity to belt out a paternal crack homily will be left to the public houses where they can share the peals of ale and get carried by the runoff. 

The door handle thus will deny with flags of bluster salespeople and police. The kitchen sink says don't enter. The bedroom door hinges invites detergent. 

Ceiling fans make proposals for hours. Windows quote other windows.