I tuck my head into my lap.

Old songs play
between the warnings.

I light a match and watch

centipedes scatter
up the walls. In the end,

it was worth it

to have imagined stars
dancing near the sump pump.

Bees shimmied

through mortar fissures
to escape winter and lay dead

in concentric circles.

There’s no way back
out between the cracks.

To catch earwigs,

create a dark space
for them to crawl into

or encourage birds.

The basement is full
of boxes with pinholes. Upstairs,

the cat has scattered

imprints of his nose
along the window, inches

from where the feeder swayed.

He meows, but I
can’t hear him among the collapse

and shatter. Still, I believe

he’s there. Better
to stay under and believe,

than to emerge

and discover the baby
on your front porch, delivered

breathless and limp by the wind.