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Close to Home
The house was raised without direct
architectural intent, seemingly erected
overnight but well-constructed, "measured to
the standard of the times," or so
the experts said. The only problem
was the standard of the modern times
was low, the experts self-proclaimed,
so when the chaos roared one afternoon
the over-bloated pimple he had called
a home was splattered round the yard
like existential mirror puss. Soaking wet
and terrified he cowered as what once
had been his certainties came crumbling
down around his feet, till just some siding
and the brick exterior were all remaining of
his pre-existing order—‘so really what was left
but just to wipe my eyes and start to reinforce
what proved itself,' he recollects it now, ‘to torch
the rest and get to building once again?
A man's a fool to settle in a house that can’t
resist the wind.’ The neighbors say that he's been
reconstructing ever since, diligently studying
the engineering manuscripts, but mostly dreaming
of a place where, as he articulates, it never rains.
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