The road that winds up

without stopping at the river rearranged
beneath my window, the road winds up
into the faceless distance, bending itself
at the edge of the clock tower, standing
stoic at the end of an unmoving south.
above the street, draperies hang upright
like funeral veils they cover the burden
of absent windows, smothering dreams
into forgetfulness behind stained glass.

a home is unstirred behind me, at rest
like just baked bread, it stays within its
walls, as if rehearsing its own aroma, a
raisin’ed crust swells in desire, waiting
to be sliced open, resolute in its casket.

outside, houses squat solemnly in rows
floors rising into unfamiliar skies, doors
hiding coldness behind stubborn stones.
looking out of my window, the river still
passes beneath the bridge, hugging itself

in consolation around bends.
here, blades of grass. ripple
against gnawed shores. sharp.
a pregnant dog births in spurts.
the hibiscus is a distracted monk.
a wailing breeze hustles, two geese
float into languid waters.
bubble eyed fish are motionless.
washing their unformed tears.
somewhere else the dead suckle.
at hope.
bodies are methodically stacked.
in bulging boxes.
clenched teeth, grinning inside.
soundless jaws.
skulls crumbling like cookies.
decomposing crematoriums.
neither here nor there.
grief in-between
living and dead
sputters, when touched.