What Gets In
--Linda Hogan 

In daylight
houses expand
like chests of majors. 

In the dark night
they contract.
Don't be afraid,
it is only the house
breathing out
its daily war
with termites and slugs. 

When walls and floorboards creak
we're afraid
of what gets in, light
from the next house
lying prone on the floor,
ten o'clock news,
a cat, wild
from the woods
and full of seed
stealing in the cracked door.
Even a child
from one night of love.
No place is safe from invasion
and everything wants to live,
even the moth
with eyes on its wings
flying in on light. 

And upstairs, the bats listening
with all their dark life
to what we can't hear,
to life and matter
in the eaves.
In true dark
the sound of wind arrives
all the way from stars
and dust from solar storms,
all the life wanting in,
even the moon at the window.