The Proprietor’s Itch

The lights are on late
in the long chickenhouses tonight

The migrations of humans
must be a mystery to the birds

I am tracking the end of this yellow line

Like a man tunneling deep into himself,
I sit watching the road roaming on
under the headlights

Something walks the creaky ribs
of the house tonight

Leaves spiral down the awkward
staircase of a tree

The streetlight burns all night in the yard

Like a man balanced, trembling
on the peak of his roof
he gazes after taillights on the highway

The crack in his foundation accrues
its nightly interest

The flywheel spins out its
inevitable proof of itself

Even the coffin rots away at last

The trees live half underground,
roots branching out in the blackness, reaching
under the property lines