[Poékwot] The Lodger (Fiona Sampson)

You could figure it as a trapdoor,
blur of hinge and
                                 down
into the unconscious of this stranger
moving around your garden like a trap—
making all the greens unstable
as the warble of nausea come bang up to greet you.

[...]

Meanwhile, the unaccustomed heat.
Meanwhile, a sky tunnelling upward—
sense of proportion—golden section
of elder hedge; then the disgraceful paddock gone wild.

The Lodger, Fiona Sampson

in Poetry (Poetry Foundation, December 2007)