I know you keep antiques, beauty,
venerable objects you love
not for looks, but what they’ve seen,

every imperfection a history,
human record, necessary as
vows. And now

a wanderer,
your vandal, of the tribe that once sacked Rome,
imprints here her own report.

That scratch on the chiffonier,
almost unnoticeable, rings with violation,
mouths at you both rising and at rest:

Empty your home.
Let me unsettle, help you
understand the lies of lock and key.

Set up sawhorses,
hew the doorframe
as you will, inscribe a prayer for

vagaries, vicissitudes, invasions
enough to keep your shutters banging, open as a palm.