Concrete Dreams

Indents of water make of the ceiling a canvas.
Slowly, inexorably, the damp settles.
Finds its way through cracks and rocks,
the futile dream of concrete. Before insulation
was invented stood this house. Before that
the hills, but there is always a before
if you go down far enough.

Look up.

Watch where the white cracks
in the shape of your plans.
How the beams break
under the fantasy of possession.
Listen to the movement upstairs.
The sound of shuffling, the creaks of use,
of water’s jealousy for our thirst.
Hear grandmother’s footsteps up above.
Feel the thousand eyes of the wall
and its ornaments. Eyes living. Eyes
dead. Hear the quiet when she’s gone
to bed. Look up. Watch for the water.
You’ll never see it
until it’s there.