The dead dream our footsteps
over cracked floorboards, above them
our shadows all that touches
their waned faces. They’ve forgotten
our language and have substituted
every word for something about them.
Did you ever think of a house
simply as a collection of light?
Or death as giving it back? Slowly.
Obstruction may be all we are.
Light pauses to imitate us. Mock us even.
At night it tucks away in our skin
keeps us warm, allows us to almost
recognize one another in the dark.