I stopped outside your old address,
Or slowed my pace-
I hardly dared
Look at the place;
And yet, I stared
Back at that face
Whose sockets glared,
And tried to guess
What kind of soul it must possess.

Nobody occupies that shell.
It’s up for sale:
The rank milkweed
That chokes the rail,
The rust that bleeds
Beneath the nail,
The centipede
That crawls the well,
The nearest passageway to hell.

To think–light-hearted, newly wed,
They’ll soon arrive
To paint the fence,
Plant seed, revive
An innocence
Whose song may drive
The devil hence–
And in his stead,
The children’s toys beneath the bed!

They’d best be sure the gate is barred,
The curtains drawn
When the owl calls.
Keep one eye on
The dreaming dolls.
He may be gone.
But darkness falls
Across the yard,
With no bright angel standing guard.