The gaping house moans and leans;
a sleeping giant wrangling comfort.
High ceilings draw heat.
It pours upwards coiling and seeping,
I attempt to gather these notions of form,
to shape them into arrows and point them at the mark,
yet the flood overwhelms and the space above becomes the ocean below.
There is a small boat in the middle of this ocean sinking.
Hopelessly, yet hopefully
with cupped hands, a small child spoons the water over the prow;
her best efforts to empty the hull.
Eventually futility arrives uninvited
though it is a relief
in the end.
into the depths
of a universe
I have heard that the last sense to leave the body at death is hearing.
It is also what brings us back from the dead.
Listen to the wind that still chases through the trees,
trots through alleyways,
whispers in the gutters.
The sun comes up over the rooftops and
I am witness to myself once again.