In the realty office, charcoal lines stood
guard over the orange farm. Driving home,
he squinted at the artist’s pencil rendering,
recognized each tree, each of his brothers.

Ghosts with family resemblances inhabit
the shadows, abandoned cars, tractors,
once boys explored along snow fences.
The sky counted on for years disappears.

His wife turns off the switch to their room.
In darkness, his eyes learn again to see:
the curves of the heritage bedpost
he might be able to afford to buy back.

He listens to creaks and groans of a lonely
house in bad weather, soon to become
haunted. He thinks about all that may happen
tomorrow. She spreads a comforter,

slips into their bed a last time. All being,
they wear no stitch of clothing but time.