Emboldened now, no longer earthbound,
No more shrinking into the shadowy lee
As if plain sight were a station
Not for a moment to be contemplated,
Shunning attention, renouncing ambition.

Finespun still, but with a newfound fervor—
None of that tremulous aversion
To exposure, that fanatical clinging
To fastidious humility, which is itself
A form of overweening vanity.

Lovely, the seeping cranny, sweet
The rift where the mortar gives, the fissure
Shivering through the loose garden slate—
Possible to hold fast to all this
Obliging neglect and still aspire.

Aroused, impelled, sensing the main chance
At last: the boxy cinderblock garage
Put up who knows when, no pitch
To that slab roof, rainwater pooling
For days on end, tarpaper all rot and tatter.

Flaring this morning, distinctly glimmering,
First thing one spots from the porch upslope—
Fetching woven stuff, a living velvet sheen
Stealing across that blistered surface
Like a desert prophecy come to pass.

Still emblematic of all that’s delicate,
Everything chastened and constrained,
But with a steelier glint, as if to offer proof
That here is how another nature might yet
Make itself felt: ascendant, rampant, plush.

—David Barber