Shims

The wood is shrinking.

It’s the cold, I guess.

It pulls at the joints until they scream.

I woke up at three and there it was—

a yellow knife of light

cutting across the rug.

The door doesn't fit the frame anymore.

There’s a space where the air comes through,

bringing the smell of the basement.

I watched the dust.

Little specks just hanging there,

caught in the leak.

They don't land. They just drift

in that narrow bit of gold.

I should fix it.

No, I should find a piece of cedar.

But I just stayed in bed,

watching the house pull away from itself.