You are an idol of stone
You do not move, you stand at the doorway and watch
You do not talk
You stand at the doorway and watch
When you thunder downstairs to your mistress
Your wife sits blue-eyed on the bed
That is old and ugly, its wood full
Of red insects that bite, but you
Will not let her sell it
For you think it is just fine

When you drive away with your mistress
There is laughter in the house
There is a board-game
Of fickle fate and try
That your wife and your children toss dices upon
And there is so much chatter and so much sound
All red things crawl back
Into the deep deep dens of the bed
That your wife got from her own house
And that you will not let her sell
For you think it is just fine

When you laugh, it is like storm
Sounding through the fingers of the city
And you make so much noise, it startles the sky
It makes the fat dead TV wince at its past
It makes the gruff old drawers never want to move again
And you are always here
Such loving god:
We cut the stone from which you came
Into pieces, pieces, we carved so many of you
Now you are in every doorway
And you do not move

When you return from your mistress
You are happy
You put the new TV on, loud and the news
Of the city flood the house
You are a news yourself
You cough like a steel glass falling in the silence of the night
When everything is sleeping, you cough like its bouncing
That goes on and on, and like its spinning stop
You cough and you chew on the furniture wood
And you make so much noise

She cannot sleep

Well, after, you are still; grey-eyed and corpse
And the insects come; and they do not bite stone