Wreck

           Planks
nailed this way
and that
bar broken windows.
Every day, I pass by
the nineteenth-century
sea captain’s mansion.
Timbers giving up
the ghost of paint
to storm-cloud gray.
Weeds have taken
over and now,
late summer, are going
to seed –
spiked thistle
                      and velvet fists
of mullein. Moss,
vibrant green pulsed
with russet, is eating
the roof.

                      Names
are being erased
in there, linen sanded
to a greasy dust.
The collapsed ribcage
of a small whale is all
that remains of a crib.
On bright days,
the pressure of sunlight
must be excruciating
           as it crosses the floor.

      And these
are the surface notes
of the deep
                      humming
that will overwhelm
this place: robust
city crickets,
wasps papering
blooms on wood,
the jabber of sparrows
in the haywire rose beds.
                      All the dizzying
business of abandon.