The Proprietor’s Itch
The lights are on late
in the long chickenhouses tonightThe migrations of humans
must be a mystery to the birdsI am tracking the end of this yellow line
Like a man tunneling deep into himself,
I sit watching the road roaming on
under the headlights•
Something walks the creaky ribs
of the house tonightLeaves spiral down the awkward
staircase of a treeThe streetlight burns all night in the yard
Like a man balanced, trembling
on the peak of his roof
he gazes after taillights on the highway•
The crack in his foundation accrues
its nightly interestThe flywheel spins out its
inevitable proof of itselfEven the coffin rots away at last
The trees live half underground,
roots branching out in the blackness, reaching
under the property lines