Monsoons threaten to murder
this house: punch
through the roof, scrape
the ceiling in sagging peels
to the gap-mouthed floor, gag
the cracks with clotted water
until the walls melt.

When his father lived,
they patched madly. They sealed
the delicate homestead
into a stable disaster; propped
up adobe with willpower
which overflowed the walls
and seeped into the corners,

manifesting in junkpiles: experiments,
tools, books. Each generation
left its layer in the walls and out
like tree-rings in both directions,
until one heir-apparent remains
sitting at the pith, and waits
for the water axe to fall.