The mirrors are sheeted.
The chairs and couches
lose their shapes under heavy
covers. Dust congregates
in corners. She is silent
and expressionless
as a dressmaker’s model.
 
But I need little—a door
for entry, a window, however
smeared, for light. I sit
on the draped cushions. Motes swirl
and eddy in wan shafts
of sun warming the rooms
that seem to stir. I pin
remnants, vestiges,
traces to her frame. 
A long time, now,
I have been 
both ventriloquist
and dummy. 
 
I am accustomed
to the squares of my afternoons,
the tableau vivant
at their centers. When they tell me
the house is death’s
eminent domain,
I shut my ears. 
Windows shine
and windows darken; curtains fill
with light, then flatten. The glow
and shadows on her face
make me dream
she’s home.