Moisture gets in everything:
the bricks
nearest the ground
store it up,
thirsty shapes,
like the chalk that drinks
blue dye
to make
a scientist’s point.

The garage wall glares at me,
property
that continues
to do its work,
for now,
even as it
courts
its dissolution.

The books curl upstairs,
the rugs
heavy as moss:
the house
responding
to this atmosphere
that makes the paint clam
and
threads new falls
through the bush.

The roof keeps off
only
the part that drops;
not the fog
that floats in,
a slumming cloud,
the air
that with humid fingers
touches
everything
like a child.

The laundry basket,
susceptible
wicker,
falls apart
at one touch.