Deserted Farm 1909: Oil on Fiberboard

Thick, rough, and course round the rugged,
Claws reaching out for the mauve
Of the moonlight,
Dominates gently the pinking clouds.

How long can the old house
Haunt here, ancient chalk streaks
By the dirty grass?

As long as the windows
Like their squinting eyes, and the door
Loves a gaping mouth.

Shuffle in and feed on sweat, the bare
Cool rocks are silent,
Watching for their rusty pores.

No seeds could crack
This desolation, and the lunatic pimples
Splatter on their pocking, leafless
Arms.