I’m smearing white gunge into cracks
again, kidding myself momentarily
that this building need not breathe. It’s best
to use bare fingers, squeeze the silicone
into each hairline crevice, press and smooth. Below,
old ground fails to understand the urge
for regular, unblemished surfaces, skimmed
and sealed, for light to shimmer evenly from walls.
The substrate shuffles. Earth hiccups, itches,
finds more comfortable postures. The house
creaks, settles in response, puts on weight with rain.
We learn its habits, habitats. Let’s call this love.
Julian Dobson lives in Sheffield. His poems have appeared in publications including Magma, Under the Radar, and Acumen, and on a bus in Guernsey.