Across the street lives a man
who’s been building his house for a decade.
A staircase spirals around his chimney
like the model of a DNA strand
that reaches toward the roof
he has blueprinted onto a crumpled sky.
At night, he burrows a tunnel under the asphalt,
dragging his wires through the dark
to my yard, pulling them up the side
of my trailer to attach to my satellite
dish for a thousand free channels.
Early one morning, after his footsteps
have stomped through my dream
& awakened me, I catch him
on my roof, crouched like a hawk
by the rain gutter, having a cup of coffee,
watching the sunlight bleed
from a wounded horizon.
About the author:
Larry Narron is a teaching associate at Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon, where he recently received an MFA in Poetry. A graduate of UC Berkeley, his poems have appeared in Phoebe, Eleven Eleven, Permafrost, Whiskey Island, The Boiler, and other journals.