the telephone rings
and when I
answer it
I hear
the sound
of wings beating
and then overtaken
by a fierce and mighty wind

then the old farmhouse
begins expanding
and contracting
like the large diaphragm
of a very small universe

still-lives of old farmhouses
tea kettles and pears
fall from hollow walls

heaving yellow jackets
saying in swerves
I love and hate

every season framed
and hung
detaches and falls
to the hardwood floor

where you are still
digging

entering more closely
with every step
the finely
crafted shadows
of the conditional self