sea salt and sage

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
shift shadows.

I remember it is nothing.
The road echoes in timbres,
tongues by windowpanes,
whispers behind doors.

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