SHAPE OF ABSENCE VIII
The houses where young children died have become holy.
Shadows freeze and multiply in the hallways.
A glass, forgotten on the table, resembles a chalice.
A towel that hangs from a nail is a greeting from afar
and the talkative distance hides behind it. At night, when
they turn the lights off,
the flame of a cigarette, all alone in the mirror,
resembles the lonely fire the dead children have put on
at the far end of the Saint John field. And still
the crawl of a small cockroach on the newspaper that
fell on the floor resembles a small car that passes
the tunnel bringing a concealed official tiding.