I enter the house like a cave in the wilderness.
Everything seems out of place and peculiar.
Darkness inside – like the place is windowless –
Spreads itself out and becomes unrulier.
No flip of the light switch will light the corner.
The couch is cold to the touch, which implies
You’re long gone. You are some place warmer.
And unspeakably farther - beyond surmise.
In the little bedroom, on the crumpled sheets,
The toys miss their owner, dazed and sleepless.
Through the wall, I hear – they are counting sheep
And I count along, but to myself. It’s needless
To say that the calendar’s marked, but the mark,
In itself, cannot make the clocks move faster
And the body submissively melts in the dark,
And the bedroom convulses to falling plaster.