Only the dead feel at home—“My father’s house has many mansions…”
“You have to understand,” the poet said, “life is a rented room, not much more.”
Sometimes I have to laugh
Thinking of piety, all those down payments
For what is essentially free. Death is it’s own house.
The windows are open, late Autumn, rain coming, the old curtains billowing.
Planet of the Blind 