The scriptures say, I’ve heard them tellthis is not a home
the earth is just a carousel
you spin round with it for a spell
you dance a jig, you sing and marvel
and then when the metronome
marks the stop
you get off
and find a place to dwell.
So a change of roof here is a trifleflat terraced or a dome
and I should know that very well
yet I overwrap the fragile, breakable;
this porcelain and that crystal
with paper and plastic foam
I’m far too anxious
all this fuss
as if any roof is final!
Yesterday a harbour, today a channelchange is my only home
yet so much effort to make walls habitable
each roof loved, each window, each corbel
clutched too hard for easy farewells
as all things slowly transform
what flashes past
is that no homes last
they crumble and/or expel.