We watch, stupefied as we grow
elephantine, fill the house
until tired shutters are shucked

open. We drag thickened ankles from
room to room, astonished at the sentence,
the lead suits that won’t be neatly hung.

In the unmown afternoons, cars park
across us, seeking tarmac. We wake
as we sleep: heavy as roads slept on.

But what if weight was our intention all along,
the deceptions of stylish elegies
traded for glad, frightful earth?

In the kitchen, the broken radio preaches
static, weight loss, instant gardens;
the spider takes up its annual position in the hall.

The riotous spring is here and the dead
are industrious, mowing grassy
underworlds, light as gravity.