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Broken water faucets and empty black sinks
Blue-gray window watchers with old bloated feet.
I watched her eyes close, so deliberate and slow
While her bone-hand danced shadows across my heart

And the curtains close
—so the phantoms can frolic like the children they are
their momentum spoiling my sleep.

And all the old books left on the top shelf
Told of reasons to turn away
And all the children racing from bedtime
Have other games to play
And all the neighbors white-washing their fences
Have other things to say
While a bone-hand slowly replaces her curtains.

Blue-gray sunlight never pierces a neighbor’s curtains
And round and round the peeling paint
The phantoms come and grow.
And all around her framed little world
The sun never comes or goes.

I watched her eyes close, so deliberate and slow
The abdication of hollow cheeks and selfless will
Blue-gray windows and broken feelings wrapped
In pre-war kerchiefs and retreating footsteps
her driveway sown with wild oats.
her driveway hidden in wild crabgrass that
A bone-hand pulls momentarily then abides the weeds to grow

Her shoes abide on their lonesome
With no small feet to catch the fall
Right next door to a hundred spares
That dance in turn until they fall apart

Tomorrow the house will open.
And naturally the children will come.
Tomorrow the past will echo like an old faded sun.
Tomorrow when she holds everything together
The dam will burst and fall all over the floor.

There are explosions that no one ever hears,
And even in the Holy of Holies the curtains can tear