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.
Bang to rights
is how he'd like to have your house. Cuckoo,
wool-wearing garden-dweller,
new-age Salvationist, holy among your cow-parsley
and roses.
Meanwhile, the unaccustomed heat.
Meanwhile, a sky tunnelling upward—
sense of proportion—golden section
of elder hedge; then the disgraceful paddock gone wild.