Us

A wind so slow as to be a stillness
deposits us in a mist of must,
settles us deftly in the dullness

of the house's husk; we come to rest
and in diurnal dusk begin our work:
ekeing toeholds, making anchors fast

in the vertex of lath and joist, the crook
of crumbled dado, in every crack inhuming
ourselves in the soft absorbent dark.

Epicene, we set about terraforming:
transmute dust into mould, mould
murk into form in the gloaming,

until in a nook a huddled fold
crowds putative and innocuous
and we have colonised a world

without photosynthetic fuss,
stirring sterility into fullness
inexorably. There's no quelling us.