This is not a dream kind of dream.
Spanish moss has taken us over,
gone down the jawlines,
around the necks,
and pokes from our sleeves.
Not even the chairs creak anymore.
Walking around a grieving household
makes you think it could be picked up
in the palm and put in the oven.
Come on, little house. Say something.
Father, Mother, Sister, Sister, Sister, Dead Sister.