I read dimensions of a shed,
wall to wall carpet, glitter strewn glass roof,
above a bed where telescope protrudes,
to catch each clutch of stars,
I reached beyond my solar plexus,
vexed as deep winds moaned
through intestinal space and time.
We are all but flesh upon bone,
a micro curse perched,
stitched to the lace collar of the universe,
seeking a home.
I e-mailed bid, got terse reply.
“Second home blown to Kansas,
on the cusp of a hurricanes angry storm.”
I thought of Oz, a lonesome prairie house,
one dozen dust bowls, Toto, Dorothy,
forever wheeling, stirred endlessly round,
while the universe wound itself once more.
I turned through shallow sleep,
bare boards creaking in Autumn’s gale.
Leaves sailed past,
sliding on wet window panes,
beaten down by rain.
In dawns cold silence they clustered underfoot,
or stuck to a scarecrows face.
pulled worms from recently rotated soil,
while birds flew feathery down.