A new poem by Greg Bell

Walls

I’ve been exposed. Like the brick cataract—
former third floor window in our severed
square of limestone wall – forced to reflect—

included with the rent, abstract and weathered.
After a century of bad winters, winds
lashing out from the mouth of the St. Lawrence

the wall stands, clenched, gnashing cement dentures.
But with nothing to brace for now rescinds
behind the scaffolding of our fold-up couch

where we brood and quarrel over last night’s
plastering, quarrying a past my breach
of trust has you digging up; its shaky weight

stressing trusses, casting foundation in doubt.
Question is: am I in, or am I out ?