Beneath these missing slates, dampness spreads
like shame in dark corners, rotting rafters.
A butterfly beats against the skylight;
through cracked, ill-fitting pane may yet escape.
Downstairs our boiler ignites, grumbling
sucks in gas, exhales its deadly warmth.
Soon the forming ice will sing to us no more:
let’s see this winter out, then make choices.
Settle for an attic life. When rivers flood
numberless sandbags will not save the cellar.
You ask how long we should expect to live,
for there is only so much one can do.
With vinegar I wipe the mirror clean,
see myself revealed. Startled, wash my hands.
xi. 2021
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