SCENES FROM THE MAUSOLEUM

Dead men in the kitchen next to a charcuterie board. 
Dead men in the den at the poker table. 
Dead men bathing in my tub, lying in my bed. 
Music plays. I am a bird outside a window 
of the house of my body. 
Somewhere, a tape spinning in an old VCR 
shows images of the dead men as they were in life. 
Their skin is bright with sweat. Their voices are deep. 
Their shadows fall but never hit the ground. 
The scent of an autumn night comes from the distance.
It smells dangerous, as if any world could happen.
At dawn, a terrible cold light will stick to everything, 
congeal on the doorframes, crumble under the eaves. 
It will offer no relief.