On stormy nights he thinks
of the wind and door as lovers
destroying each other.
For months he has meant to plane
an edge so it will close,
but he feels he would miss the sound
of it banging against its hinge,
then remaining open in silence like a sail,
propelling the house beyond the town 
to wild events in open fields.
It's as if it falls when it closes, 
returning in a lull to its jamb.

He is happy this way in the interim,
falling asleep each night
in exactly the same way.
If the door breaks, he'll buy another,
or better yet, fix it.
He will take perfect measurements of its width
and length and examine its damage of splinters 
with gentle hands.
He will mold it back into shape, 
then wait for the heat of summer
to expand it again.
Until the door blows off
on a sleepless night,
he will take advantage of conditions.