Rotten wood houses,
Green and serene,
Waiting for their owners,
Singing folktale songs,
To jump through the broken windows,
But the air marches in
Through panes all full of shards
And spider homes,
And tell the walls
The honest year.
Slapping hands
All over their ears,
The lumber swings open 

The door and waits so

Patiently
for the oxygen
To get bored.