The Waters Of The Bay Lie Beneath

An abandoned house -         dark salved to eclectic;         crinkly, black pigment of old pine boards         disparate to the elements.         The waters of the bay lie beneath.         A long slope trailing back of brush,         garbles stones hoarse         in the throat of a dust-flecked field         are made more barren         by the skunk cabbage weeds,         the ugly, flotsam cloaks         of horse hair to the neck -         a hair shirt, coddling abrupt the barren pain         tilled from empty soil.         The summer's heat.         Nameless insect waifs         wavering, adjusting tumult         to straighten the tight air         about the outward door frame.         Pinched in windows, glass in         refugee lots billowing about         urine paper;         nails a ruddy pick         dried to rusty blue,         some dim shiny in their cropped disrepair.         A road dry, rotating bare,         nameless zigzagged         only limestone in shelves         meanders in         throngs about stony debris,         sometimes up to this beaten house.