When you leave you leave the windows open and the doors and because the house sits by the sea by first light a film of sand gilds the floorboards and the kitchen chairs
in the upholstery the mites unconcernedly devour and shit
and a moth turns fluttering in a pillar of light in the stairwell
sand eddies in over days and weeks rounding blurring
mirrors cloud and tarnish in the bathroom and the hall and a spider skitters over last year’s news in the kindling box
on a summer night with a full-moon tide the weeping crack in the sea wall goes and the water comes in six inches deep scalloping the sand in the kitchen into a shallow bowl from the dishwasher to the ironing board
a hermit crab tugs determinedly on a sprig of dandelion snagged
on a hinge his claws cause minor avalanches
pipes freeze and thaw ghosts in the walls
mold then moss in the upstairs closets
and then when
the biting edge of a hurricane peels back the roof and the light comes in the shell of your house weathers like the ribcage of a whale
it smells of dirt and salt in the bathtub drain
swifts roost in the shattered chimney and the scarified pits left by raccoons in their latrine beside the bookcase crack open and unfurl roots blind down and sideways a pale tendril reaching up
and in four springs it’s wreathed in white and a branch holds out a bruise-blue plum through the window like a lantern
in the wavering shade of the screen porch an elfin-faced fox lays down to die and when she does
her belly blooms black with maggots and flies a crow nuzzles her snout with his sharp dark beak
the wind keens through the rafters the steady heart-sound of the sea
and you return years older now and gray and stand in what was once the doorway
holding absurdly a broom.