Foreclosure: weed-high and mangled to turn
slowly skeletal under vacancy, sweet rot of bamboo
to permeate the floorboards. How the forest
beaten back with a flail, mowed down with a dozer,
returns rancorous to take possession, a green jaw
closing around a dream of family, swallowing.
Grass is not native, sprinklers belong to lawn chairs,
the space between the spaces in a sidewalk crack
imperceptibly into dark fractions that mites grow
from, sticky rice brushed from the lid of a takeout
container, a special from a menu that no longer
exists. Springs uncoiled in barbs from the carseat
couch leaned against the peeling walls are spun
into papery hornet’s nests and rust emporiums.
Elms puncture the aluminum roof with the force
of a fist moving in slow motion, leafing for the light
pressing hotly against the curdled, reflective surface.
The crudely fashioned gutters will not grow wings.
Homelessness precedes being precedes becoming.

ravi shankar