Empty House
Three a.m.: startled from your bed,
neglecting to turn on lights
you prowl the silent corridor
and room after familiar room.
This is your house, each part responds
to a part of you, as if come
surging from a dark mirror.
Within these boundaries your wife
spent the last, troubled months of life.
Here in these rooms your children dwelt
and played before they went to seek
new spaces where their lives could grow.
The edge of your identity
is at the open window
where the curtain always swelled
with morning air (not far off now,
will it breathe?) Once the night released
showers of sparks for your waiting mind.
In this dark it only remains
to return to the room you fled
and find someone where you had lain,
not bothering to breathe, and,
in no time at all, realise
you are the person lying dead.
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