sophocles_hero

the heart comes packaged in a brown paper bag
and the receipt is a white flag flying
hopscotch on cracked concrete and liquer bottles in the mud
this neighborhood has always been bad blood to me
there's the house with the totems, and a basement hanging tree
morning glories grow up and over everything
and the writing on the wall, like conversations too hard
to let go they had to be written down
as if the walls were a grammaphone to record the sounds
the backyard statues are fading and tipping
salutations for kings, long dead but still dreaming
and if you listen you can hear
the last words they were speaking
through the bees nested in brick, the wind in the trees
and the old house creaking
they say what we mean but never speak
they say what we can't because we are weak
those old ghosts are what make love real
and tangible