Washing Line of the Future

I've built a house in Jim; I like it in him
it's sunny and familiar.
I dig a plot for a garden: some parsley, a rose.
My brand new path of bricks
wobbles toward the washing line of the future
it's a rotary.
The sun scopes out the nameless tree, picks across a leaf.
When it's dark the days sew themselves into cocoons
and when I go out for a clean towel
the sun opens and shuts, drying.

I draw the yard back into shade
to see it better
and this is where I like to take a breather,
because I'm a miner;
my headlamp's a yellow lemon.
When I lower my wheelbarrow
my arms are so light
they feel hollow. I could take off
if it wasn't so late in the day:
the sun's open then shut, dying.