Our house overlooks the cemetery.
We sleep close to the dead
but, thankfully, the living sleep closer.
But corpses can’t help invading our dreams,
bone fists pounding on the door,
mossy faces staring in the window.
But even unconscious, we’re alive enough
to not let them in, to keep our temporary darkness,
their permanent version, separated until morning.
For we wake to the light, clean and golden.
The dead forgo the pleasure,
return to their dirt, their worms.
The cemetery looks up at our house.
The dead sleep close to the living
but, thankfully, they have each other.
