Spry creatures of the daytime,
actions seek their resting point
at the bottom of the funnel,
a fall,

a drop

a break in the surface below.

I came here to warn you
about the new house.

It reeks of change
and the fear it provokes.

Vacancy in the heart,
no vacancy in the head.

I learned the ways of the world
in a mottled woodlot of oak

and pine needles.
The ways of people
darken the sun –
susurration of leaves
in the wind.

Predicting the shadows
that fall
above your windows

cast by the telephone poles,
heaving so slowly

in their ground holes,
is a game for immortals.

In your house,
I hear the drip drop
of old plumbing,

portals to the underworld.

I cannot tell you what
to do
or how to think.

The bath is full
and that done
or thought
is null.