Her husband dead, my friend can’t sleep;
another’s lost his wife and naps
around the clock. An old house weeps

with all it sees, what it can’t keep
from slipping through the floorboard cracks
to groan, “Your loved one’s dead. Don’t sleep

a second with a grief that keeps
repeating when you wake, the trap
of loss and clocks.” An old house weeps,

counts days and nights by sighs that leap
ahead and back, recurring map
to somnolence. My friends, we sleep

too much to stave off haunting grief
that’s always home. And when awake:
the house won’t rest, our dead won’t sleep,

regret or joy still can’t release
us from our weeping for the past:
the husband/wife, the friend. Asleep/
awake: time’s house, love’s clock, still creaks.