16/30

4/16/13
On Infestation

The wooden post
has been eaten
away to nearly
nothing now.
It is held
up by a rusted nail
at a completely
awkward angle, the
footing rotted long ago.

Light plays
in the space
underneath the last
termite hole
carelessly, giggling
like a child
with a secret.

I want it to
be like this;
to watch my last
splinter give way
to cachinnating  
sunlight, to let my
foundation give
and tumble,
to disintegrate - upward.