the houses stand clumsy stone and concrete,
under a sun where they were wood once
and no devils lived in them, just insecure
resurrection; and their memories then
were like the dreams of children, smoke
curling lazy from a pious and lascivious
chimney. but we have forgotten everything
and torn the seconds from the clocks
to leave them dreamless, like dead people
when nobody is listening. no body
living in them, just the life they lied about
that never continued forever, like no body
genuinely expected, some sultry eternity
for fingering grannies and grandchildren,
until incest almost seems disgusting.
but the houses stand clumsy, without loving,
and no ghosts live in them; except the living
dead already who work for their sustenance,
imagining God could be bothered to resurrect
scumbags, adventitious bastards that have fallen
from time's womb like a tranquilizer, like a
nighttime, bastards that have fallen asleep,
that have forgotten to dream, or how to dream.
their God does not believe in them - he is dead
but used to believe in women and men -
not these people, just real women and men
