And so in a scowling gale, I pitch the roof
and hoist purlins and other terms I do not know –
man abuses gravity, the new gestalt.
I don’t know how I know how to do this
only that I that I do and that contentment
is the inevitable result.
From the twitching light of neighbours’ rooms
dancing with doom in a howling storm
I know this must seem faintly weird.
This flowerbed footprint is my Man Friday.
I must look to them like Robinson Crusoe
with my muddy slippers and Covid beard.
When you speak an image, it is said
that a new spirit enters the room.
But here, in a suburban garden
I am enclosing a volume of air
in order to fill it with words.
Each trimmed lawn is a failure of empathy.
.
