DAY EIGHTY-ONE (2015-6-28)
The house fits together in seams,
in leant-to claps of board,
in the hollow, blank spaces
insulated by darkness between walls
that groan inside of wooden bones.
The house aches, leans side to side
when the wind comes.
The house tumbles against trees,
drunken in the wee hours
when all the bars have closed already.
The house nudges,
to see if you're still awake.
knowing no others
and helpless to find more,