Mine with Inner Weather

The dwelling requires a troglophile.
The outside enters too easily,
But the inside’s always damp and dark.

The firelight, the animal murals,
The incredibly long-lived creatures
That actually belong, colorless

And quiet and small, the dragonlings,
White crickets eaten by eyeless fish.
Everything’s an immigrant in here;

Every life’s an invasion. Outside,
The weather rages between extremes,
The snowstorms, wildfires, flash floods and drought,

And the mammals near the entrances,
The pack rats, bats, hyenas, and bears
Breathe in and out of the gaping mouth,

But deeper, everything’s dreamier,
The inner weather damp but constant,
Nearly constant, not that different

From the inner rooms of any house,
Any modern dwelling, skyscraper,
Office, tenement apartment-block,

Homeostatic, but less designed,
More porous than all but the poorest,
And even if you come to love it,

Call it yours, think of it as yourself,
You know you’re still alien in it,
You with your ochre, artwork, and torch.