Prose. Jane Unrue’s extraordinary prose unfolds within the confines of a mythological house: I used to walk when the moonlight was just enough to make the metallic structural elements (the rest of the house as if missing) appear to be coming at me from all sides. ‘I know those door frames and window frames are not really coming at me, ’ I remember saying, ‘but it sure does look as if they are.’ In restless, suspended sentences that seem to push closure beyond the horizon, a woman wanders from room to room or ventures outside