There was a hotel here:
grand it was
before the ground slipped away
from under its feet,
leaving doll’s house rooms
open to larger eyes
before reaching the tipping point,
doors sliding into dust
Now tree roots bind its remains
into packed bunches below the surface:
a kind of room service or picnic
for the dead
And above ground
camouflage in shades of green
hides the truth:
the murder, or accidental death
Grass grows on fingerprints
and covers the evidence,
taking steps too
All down the cliff
deceitful flowers bloom