the tap runs until the rust clears
then fills the thick blue mug three-quarters full
set on the table, the surface ring trembles
with every truck shifting gears out on the boulevard
then pulls itself back to a flat, dark circle
we have spent months hauling oak joists
to build a frame that wouldn't buckle under the snow
our palms are stained with dark tannin
stiff in the knuckles when the temperature drops
in the end, none of it held
the roof caved where the dry rot started
now we live inside what is left of the drywall
a temporary partition that stops the wind
if you do not press your shoulder against it
you sit on the overturned crate
the tea steams, then stops steaming
neither of us mentions the fence line
or the black water rising in the cellar
we only watch the surface in the mug
lose its tremor, bit by bit
until it holds the small square of the window
without spilling
—lyra moon (the international building code defines habitable space as having a minimum ceiling height of seven feet)
june 10, 2026