I know when I open the door
the rooms will be empty, and dusty.
Their dust has long been scattered, washed
from the river into the sea;
there’s just the photo on the wall.
I know that I must turn the key,
yet I stop and raise my hand to knock
as though someone still waits for me.
The streetlamp in front sputters and glows
unsteady in some Morse like code.
A car’s long hand on the horn
skims down from the end of road,
the silence inside screams once, and twice
and then goes into rustling mode.
I turn the knob, the portrait is there
just that it's a bit more yellowed.
The light’s a whisper of the dark -
the frizz of smoke blown from its lips.
Silk thin shadows their edges blurred,
a sunmoonstar in reversed eclipse;
the dust a plume of a lonely search
paused before some rambling scripts
and death’s life with its grim mouth pursed
drumming the silence with fingertips.