The house is quiet again. Like dust
Silence settles over every room,
Like the complicit decay of the living.

Marge walks between her chamber and the bathroom,
Uses the bowl and uses the sink
To wash her hands, then goes back
Past the sullen panels
And the flaking paint
And the window where the bright little cars
Zip by the drugstores,
Hotels, into her bedroom
And climbs beneath the sheets.

The wind makes the trees rustle
And it rains.
Like an unwanted lover she can feel the cold
Insinuate himself into the comforter,
Nipping at her shoulders
And kissing her feet. She longs

To sleep. Last night she dreamt
She was sailing in Bermuda, the breeze
Unfurled her hair from end to end like a weaver
Stretching fine thread, and the diamond deep
Blinded her with light, everywhere was light,
And in the darkness she smiled
And continued to sleep.