HUMANITY, FOREVER DRILLING
A house must be able to have edges fraying,
break out of its hinges and locks,
mutter darkly, make Siberian moan,
must be able to shake out its tiles like hair,
let itself be chastised by flaying
birch branches. Should be able to die of the shocks.
How soft towns would be then,
a dream of house phantoms.
Houses should be able to abandon
their bandages, sink
slowly and sedately to their knees
on the lawn,
open like a fruit,
become wood and rock again,
a landscape like an old attic.
