To the Trespasser

　　by David Barber

　　 A quiet akin to ruins

　　 another contracted hillside， another split-level

　　 fretting the gloaming with its naked beams.

　　 The workmen have all gone home.

　　 The blueprints are curled in their tubes.

　　 The tape measure coils in its shell.

　　 And out he comes， like a storybook constable

　　 making the rounds. There， where the staircase

　　 stops short like a halting phrase，

　　 there， where a swallow circles and dips

　　 through the future picture window， he inspects

　　 the premises， he invites himself in.

　　 There he is now： the calculating smacks

　　 of a palm on the joints and rails，

　　 the faint clouds of whispered advice.

　　 For an hour he will own the place.

　　 His glasses will silver over as he sizes up

　　 the quadrant earmarked for the skylight.

　　 Back then， the houses went up in waves.

　　 He called on them all； he slipped through walls.

　　 Sometimes his son had to wait in the car.

　　 So I always know where I can place him

　　 when I want him at one with himself， at ease：

　　 there， in the mortgaged half-light；

　　 there， where pinches of vagrant sawdust

　　 can collect in his cuffs and every doorframe

　　 welcomes his sidelong blue shadow；

　　 anywhere his dimming form can drift at will

　　 from room to room while dinner's going cold-

　　 a perfect stranger， an auditioning ghost.

　　-