Something removed roars in the ears of this house,
Hangs its drapes windless, stuns mirrors
Till reflections lack substance
Some sound like the gnashing of windmills ground
To a dead halt;
A deafening absence, a blow.
It hoops this valley, weighs this mountain,
estranges gesture, pushes this pencil
through a thick nothing now,
Freights cupboards with silence, folds sour laundry
Like the clothes of the dead left exactly
As the dead behaved by the beloved,
Incredulous, expecting occupancy.