Live Oak in Winter

diseased, you lean deeper, deeper
into our walls, drop dumb beetles

past our windows: slow smasher
of the soft dry porch held together

with glue and hand-made nails,
stuttering smearer of the paint mixed

in a milk-bucket, stupid sleepy fist,
stupid man, you tilt like a smacked

pinball machine, like an old drunk,
waiting for the loud yellow engine
to arrive from the sky and crush you