We placed it on the ground between us.

After it fell again, we rebuilt it.

The wind keeps gusting it into the barbed

fence. Holes are torn roughly, not cleanly

punched. We have to keep this between us,

on the ground. The house takes the shape

of its occupants. Ours was hunched

in the limbs. Ours tipped out of the limbs,

startled by the crowings in the wintered

tops of trees. We’ve pressed against it

for so long, the spiral of a thumb, a hand

scratched into, stuffed into, the underside

of a bluff: You were not the first person

to think of this. You were not the first one here.