The house stands abandoned now. In time,
the clapboard, screens, and porch decompose
to a bleak mark — a wreck on the tree line.
So ruination brings the builder home.

The red metal box is packed with tools:
nails, galvanized for the bedroom I dreamt in,
a trowel for the plaster my hands passed through,
a needle and thread for the curtain’s revision.

Open the unlocked door. At once a throng
of starlings scatters, bursts from the roof in song.