The book rotted by the rain, the clay that’s slipped,
the earth screeches, plates collapse,
the walls lose their grip on the paintings,
nothing is aligned like the planets we think we understand.
Within the shock announced this morning by the howling dogs
their muzzles pointing toward an imaginary swarm of bees
the floor slides toward the void. We, too,
run away in the wake of a memory of the species
(oh, storm made of fire and basil,
of lamps and beds askew
and you, mountain, gulping water and air)
while the house breaks up and disappears.