I look for you, graven,
Whose house is haunted with poetry
The ghosts of verse and sheets misaligned
What bellows from the walls are
but considerations unto this life
The ceiling is now damp from
the seasons in waiting
I enter your house but you are not there
The marble floor cold as ice, and
the dust brews and whistles as I call
your name.
These days your presence is as sparse
as the warmth in this cell of a house
If only I could find an oil heater.