no wind in the trees
a woman walking down the path below
a squirrel scampers
from branch to branch
here is the home
of yet another man
some layers of his life
displayed in heaps and piles
thoughts, ghost memories
beginning in the bedroom
leading through the sliding door
to the pair of chairs outside
and all these conversations
making a haunting aria
their meaning only now
starting to rise and fall
just like the lovely boys
who dwell above
just like the mother and child
who live below
where is the powder and charge
of their doings
all there is, all told
a bicycle unused, an unlit chimenea
sadness overwhelms my senses
i have to close my eyes
to lay on my side
to dream of other days
all of us in this place
restless and never certain
anything but certain
aware of all too much
