32 The House that Cliff-hangs Sometimes my run down here’s like putting on Music and after a while not listening. I tell myself I spot every least thing As the same, or changed, around me as I run, And now I see, as the last third of the sun At the horizon lays a glistening Road to the house and reddens the west wing, That the cliff has fallen away. The deck is gone. There’s a piece of railing stopping in mid-air Above the expanse of raw vertical clay, Loose dirt, iceplant, and planking sprawled down here, Storm-loosened — not today or yesterday. Coming back by in the late dusk I see The bearded young man contemplating me Or else the wreckage there, Through the salt atmosphere, Straight down, from his high, narrow balcony. 65