Trespassers

Who lives in this house,
each tree girdled
with a painted white tire,
shrubs cut in cubes or balls,
a yellow line down the driveway?
His and hers separated
near a mailbox cemented
into a stone pyramid.
Little signs, 'no trespassers'
are trespassers
nailed to the ground.
Who, but disorderly March robins
could peck and pull dead grass,
ravage the sky
so blue could trespass
wild into a window
where a woman stands,
like a marble column
and shakes out a rug
shaped like a wing.

Sophia Rivkin

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