It starts to fit:
the wood porch
collapsed after years
onto brick feet
recalling a drunk love
draped on his girl.
Moss-roofed, boards curl.
Backed by hills
on the flanks of which
cows are as black ants.
The sun runs warm gold hands
through the doorjamb
time has twisted, neglect has bent.
It sits in a field:
a rotting house.
Abandoned, it never seemed
so much like home,
a cabin of soft gray bones.
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