November 2, 2019

• is it me?

  that early morning music--
  is it birds or ghosts?
  birds have hard eyes;
  ghosts' eyes have the softness
  of melancholy and compassion
  as the setting moon is halved
  by the horizon.

  the house is trembling under
  hammer and saw--
  are they wielded by an ex-husband
  or my father's ghost?
  ex-husbands have critical eyes;
  my father's eyes have the softness
  of love and acceptance.

  the windows rattle in turn,
  the doors open and close.
  is it me or a ghost
  going in and out?
  the bright blue sky
  spreads out in the window--
  is it ocean or ashes?
  and that thin torn silk--
  cirrus clouds or smoke?
  wedding dress or coffin lining?

  the house is like an old ghost. and because
  the wind blows fresh vitality
  into its senescent, flimsy frame,
  no one would be surprised
  if it fell down tomorrow.

  that trembling with joints noisily creaking--
  is it the house or me?
  quietly waving to the wind,
  we'll fall down together
  and welcome our mutual extinction

  • 6:38 pm
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