The Barn

We built it to fall apart
a certain way, the hip joints
 
cracking east, the slats
folding inward like a man
 
crouching under rain.  Now
we listen to the swallows
 
singing down, the loft tipping
its forks and hay
 
onto the dust-dark
floor.  Our one good dog
 
barking each night
at the rising bats.



—Gregory Lawless