From Fireweed published by Talonbooks in 1967.

There’s no room in the city for wood.

What they want is cement. Permanence,

So they are coming to tear the house down.

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Already the caretaker is gone.

Old Stan. The police came, took

   him away.

Smashed his door in first, not knowing there

   was no lock.

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Went away laughing because they found him

   cringing

In the corner, clutching the camera

   he bought

At the department store where

   he forged the cheque.

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I think it was the crone downstairs told me.

The one that paints. But she is not

   to be believed,

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Not caring to sign her name

   as a witness.

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And I wonder where they will go.

The people who stare like animals

At the sun.

‍

Who run the tap water all night long,

Or move the furniture, again, again,

Whispering, whispering in their stale rooms.

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