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.
