i’m playing house in the ruins of your home

climbing over walls you could never climb

making a mess of your insides and outside

i’m seeking shelter under your open sky

from the same rain which sought rooftops

when there were such to find: now

your world’s wetter than it was, damp baths

and muddy cisterns, sanctuary laid bare

under the gods’ stormy skies. your hills,

your fields belong to the clouds and sun

and trees, to whom the mountain towns

with their dogs and joggers are newer

than your city but no stranger: all seek

to trample leaves and dirt and call it known

but your roads weigh my steps and find

them lighter, uncertain of the way,

foreign feet tapping out static and echoes

among the skeletal traces of your home.