father arrives carrying lovelessly
the weight of his own shadow
across the furniture.

throws his socks missing
the mouth of the laundry bin.

exhaust of television static
as his mouth opens agape

receiving the dizzy fizz of
turning channels

like spindrift through the windows
moist, wizened on his resigned couch

he falls asleep like a pin
dropped into the heart of the ocean—

life, what have you done?
mother lacquers her fingernails
as the dog wags his tail furiously

the mirrors ache as dead moments
grow roots in the viscera,

as shadows curb themselves
perfecting their disappearances,

the madhouse women
rehearsing their discomfitures

time swiftly passed
through the very past of things

that we have forgotten,
late to unsay the day struck by wind
and too uneventful to even plead
for undivided rest.