That rests at forty five
On the shelf in the wall of
Our mid-century home.
The Barrow-Wights in
And around that house
Come occasional
And strong.
All spring-long. Our
Walls and windows
Crackle, sputter.
Under some other form,
An old Kingfisher
In the birdhouse which
I built.
It's nailed to the tree
Holding everything that
We put in it.
The same vine grown—
Germinating and virulent—
Around our house
Which is it's thicket,
Leaves the same things
Unknown. A trick—it
Grows and grows.
It allows a quickened flutter
From it's wings, my arms,
My heart between them.
And fields of poppy
lay out before the vine
in his little bird-mind.
The house is his
—which was mine.
