the gift in a dilapidated
two-story country home
empty
for miles
through holes in the walls
on either side
blackened supports
and ramshackle comfort
tackled by fire
caressed by rain
you can see through to the second floor
if you tilt your head,
expose blood subways,
let your hair
grasp at spine
the fault of past residents
mirrored in big blue eyes
a world of green and brown
surrounding, no,
growing from
this pin-***** destination
left to the wind,
to the quiet
the underscored call
of persons,
stronger than I,
who knew they were finished
and walked away.
who saw the green and the brown,
and looked at the home,
once warm, I'm sure,
and thought,
"there's so little here,
compressed,
with an expanse beyond
so much friendlier than
brittle walls,
tender floors,
metal and wood."

so they left

and rightfully so.