these dreaming houses

early morning with
the sky hung like some
forgotten war
over these dreaming houses


pale light
and no shadows and
all of my old poems
seen clearly as
lies


and art is not her problem
but artists


not the woman
who dreams she's a nun but
the boyfriend tying her
to the corners
of the bed


her sister shaking and
dropping the baby
to the cold kitchen floor


all it does anymore is cry