These beams I’ve had in place so long
(some I found, some I added and improved)
—I can’t hope for shelter from them now.
Nor can the shingles fitted so carefully
protect me from the rain or cold—
not when rain and cold have moved indoors,
when icestorms and monsoons, all weather
sweeps unchecked from beneath the rafters.
When outside moves inside, the only
feasible dwelling is without roof or walls.
Home after home can only be no home.
Bright pinheads of stars, thin sways
of clouds and moonlight—in these
I have a chance to drift, learning a new element.