The house hums like a jetliner
creeping over continents and oceans

Through time it rushes
with its ageing,

crossing the plains of Kronos
while freezers mumble
in sarabande

Triple-glazed eyes of the house
keep watch
beneath the roof’s cap
into every direction of darkness,

while the zodiac
pins the night

Somewhere in someone’s sometime
distances twist alone
in classical books
and burlap sacks of snakes

The masoned congress of houses
is called a city –

on maps they rise, wide-brimmed,
like anniversaries in calendars;

streets circulate with chance
as ages erode

Around this present globe
of velvet and steel

people flare briefly –

earth’s counterparts
to the stellar pinpricks
of the deep sky,

each of immeasurable meaning
to someone

And houses stand mute
on their hills,

freezers humming
like bumblebee brahmins
dizzied in electric cables

The moon –

a hovering silence
above three horses in a pasture
and a turned-away bedroom

When wars end
hangars echo empty,

and forests whisper
of vast distances
and sparse solitudes