A Hillside of Houses Leaves
Steeped in weather the old wooden houses
remember their bird-selves and unfold
barely-jointed wings.
Separating pleat from pleat
weatherboard beaks gape
door frames spring apart into
the steeple shape of breastbones
there is a woody straining
then the clatter of press and lift
and dozens of pairs of outstretched
wings slow-beat.
The mainland shuffles back
the sea floods underneath.
Splinters feather frost-burr
along leeched beams.
People curl inside
the bones that keep them
that will not keep them long.
