. . . the dead have no names, they lie so still, And all the beautiful are blameless now. James Wright I blame them less for leaving me Than for not leaving me alone. Their loneliness becomes my company. After I have mourned and wept And brought myself to peace, They shift the chairs, shake The china from the shelves, They disappear ten times each night. They want to touch, to be held. I drive them from my house, Hurl imprecations after. I want silence in my rooms, I want the children to sleep Without being visited. But when I’ve rid the house of them I find they’ve taken residence In my heart . . . the old woman With failing sight, the man Who fears darkness and fears Being forgotten, now become A part of me. The trick is to find A room they’ve not discovered, Deeper in the house Than I ever thought to go.