ghost house living

i've watched the ghost houses go 
one by one in my hometown. 
i miss them desperately. sometimes
i leave flowers in their vacant lots.
no one is building a new bedroom here.
this is sleep city. 
the corn says, "it is past your bedtime." 
boarded up windows. stomachs full
of shoes. my favorite ghost house used to be
the one with the tree full of eyes
in the front yard. there was a hole in the roof.
sometimes a great bird 
would rise from the fissure
always carrying a baby. 
the eye tree watched & watched as destruction men
came to dismantle its bones.
great metal bins filling with blood. how big is your 
coffin going to be? i burry photos
in our yard in preparation. when i see
the last remaining ghost house
i tell her to runaway from this town. i say,
"i can build you a pair of legs."
she reminds me of another house 
i used to love. he perched at
the hunger intersection. 
everyone is trying to escape. he had
cool stone walls. 
once we all had balloons. once
people gathered at the front door
waiting to burst inside. cherries in mouths. 
the bird returning, talons ready.
i hold up my guts like a garland. tell him 
to take it & search for orphaned keys.
the gone houses have no records.
no family. queer attics. queer kitchens. 
i just keep a little cd of the stories
so they do not die.  
i sometimes play them on a projector screen
in the lobby of my sadness. visitors ask,
"whose place is this? the door was open."
i answer, "it is ours."