Obsession goes from house to house.
Work needs to be done.
It’s dark. The sky is seeing someone
else of course. Fingertips blindly
trace the contours of their rented world.
Lights go on; a shadow pulls away a little.
Telephones surprise themselves with how little
they ring. A dream can’t accept the fact
that it was birthed in one of these heads.
Not those bent over the table and dripping
on their plates. Not the dead. Not the dead
who can’t escape.