The music of life whispers through the most barren shells
Like the ghost of a dream
and the oil-drenched ‘I’ll diet tomorrow’
The second week is always the hardest
When all of home bubbles up around you
like the bug bite you’ve been ignoring and finally scratch
An old man who was the sea
was kicked from his shack in the dunes
but my brother cuts paths for goats to trim the grass
Pontus cries and Pan bleats
I’ve only ever heard them howl
You try to find yourself in so many others
A third place; a life beyond yourself scraping green from the gray and the blue and the brown
All that is here is a dying house
a vacant place my kids will drift though
and drift they will
I raised them well
but when they come home all they will find is silence
a stiff upper lip
and bodies preserved in the ground
A bell rings out, desperate for an echo
but the air is thick
and in church no one can hear you scream
