Night into night, the house flinches
beneath wind- and rain-fall. Blister
cresting the slurried soil, it is
its own umbrella, overturned tuna can
straining against a gutter eddy,
the last pliosaur's unproven shell.

The atticless house shudders
under hooffall. That dogged ark,
its sodden inhabitants—all upended
without ceremony, the roofskin
a membrane a dispassionate god
would puncture freely with his staff.

Fascia, sill, doorframe: the watered
colors flee, bleeding into tooth
and ground, pencilled guylines
a vanishing tether. The house exists
where the rain does not, a frisket
mere fingertip could rub to crumble.