Why must I dream
forever of the dead?
The smell of damp earth
treading thickly under their feet,
threading my heart
with songs of yore.
Oh, I have opened doors
and windows enough
in this house
to ease their sore whispers
where their blood
runs thin and bleak
seeking a warmth
between my walls
and making promises
impossible to keep.

They find a seat at my table
minding the white air
that closes in
feasting on the dreams
that unwind around my feet
and when dusk
lowers its beetle brow
and the wind
glowers in the grates
how I feel them -
with their thin, rale voices
gathering under my skin,
pull the house assunder,
and jangle the floors
with a terrible dark,
knowing my life has bloomed too late
while the trees in the yard grow
heavy with wonder...