It is the age of creaks. settles
along steady notes of an anniversary clock.
Counting, marking, counting
white walls shift unquietly
into colder, colder vents.
Metal bangs in the shafts.
Rectangles opening a slight angle.
Cranky, this little house, tapping. Groans
while we rest our heads and dream of moving parts;
passing stores, hurdling fences and
learning the best words to talk.
it gears its own loneliness out of sight.
pledges its beams out of wedlock
and out of darkest corners
I remember it is nothing.
The road echoes in timbres,
tongues by windowpanes,
whispers behind doors.