there! standing on that corner,
wrinkles lined with sun,
is that the second-story porch
and duct-taped lawn chairs of
old routine? spoor of character;
we think shelters hide us
but skin too is shelter, and clothes,
so we (if lucky) make our house
only as our house makes us,
weaves our tangled webs in its spans,
constricts our vulnerability
like a crab's hermit shell.
to sleep is to pull surroundings
about oneself, perchance to dream;
to dream of home but be arrested
from realizing it, from arranging
its entropy, is every time a tragedy.
and so from across the street
we imagine inhabitance, drawing
the detritus of gardening, the
variability of maintenance, the
accumulations of care
into a skein of story.