Night, House by DAH

Posted on July 30, 2019 by Bob McCranie

Houses, made of shadows
of hallways
dragging footsteps, night’s
brooding matter

Windows, dark sketches
against glass
The sky comes down hard
inside my head

like a disturbing face
of black eyes
cold as any winter pane
smeared as any ink blotter

Reaching floor to ceiling
the hard chilled air
dreams of its own body
because bodies move

from room to room
like the sinister dead
exhaling down my spine
breath as thin as twilight

raising dust that does not
hold life, does not sound
a heartbeat,
does not accumulate

but swirls with faint motion
as I turn away
wearing this house as a mask
and facing another room