Everything is a dealing of fingers
and the on off switch wrinkles its nose
at your living, a smell of wind
Through an open window so up there
a mangle of drapes no one notices
all the effort. Look now how old
your silence is. And the pranksters
place a plaster hand over your grave
as if to assume you might come back
to the corporeal if only there were an accounting
for the scuff of footstep, that which makes
me jump because I hear it through
the window, so far up it is impossible.
Not feet then, but a growth like fingers.