You can't blame us for our home towns with their proliferating

semis,

the pebble-dash and exposed red-brick uniformly imperfect.

Since my translocation I see it, on Google Earth, the squamous

look

the roofs have. The scabbed pavement where they put in

and then took out the beech, because they planted the wrong sort

of trees. They and their roots had to go. Insertions. Deletions.

My avenue. Come to the point. What hedges planted, trimmed,

removed? How would you describe the shape of the end, dead end,

and its turning-slash-parking room? The way it floods when it rains

all afternoon? It's like…we're incompatible. Because? Housescan't

shut their windows, can't open their doors and aren't at all like us.

Except, they too must worry about what's going on inside. The

shuffling

of objects, the changing of rooms. AndI'm sorry houses, what a

price to pay;

to lose your character! All for the love of warmth and/or economy.

So cells in sunlight, shot aerially, glint—not fully changed, but,

probabilistically, resigned to change.I'm sorry town, I see you now,

browed and beating. Unregulated and still spreading. They got you

on a good day, waiting—as if that was living. But it is living.

It's not our fault,we're simple and malefic. I think we can do

better. Well.