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.