Sometimes I find myself outside again,
the grass wet, birds singing.
All around me, scattered on the ground,
building material, the cardboard boxes
fridges came in, evergreen branches,
old carpets, pieces of wood.

Those houses we built, using anything
we could find, sheltering places
to nestle in, long tunnels
leading nowhere. It was easy then

to knock them down and build them up again
if they got too dull, too complicated.
They weren't designed to last.