Houses of the Dead

I

What is he—a hybrid memento mori?
But that’s not certain. There’s no telling what
this means.
A death’s head, bowing.

I’m interested in model homes:
the Hawk, the Lamprey. Or

is that Osprey?
The dead forget us, rise or descend,
bones pale as clean water:

scratchings on a map.

We’re in a white and reedy field,
a page, perhaps a reliquary.

II

Strike a match: crooked little flame.
Double-paned windows and faux granite
countertops.

To the north, the bird preserve. For a little while
this afternoon, a daylight moon:
evening is a bone child dreaming past us:
three moons, two moons, none.

I can count the dead on two fingers.
                                            Write this down:
sadness is so like an Osprey, Lamprey. Change
the order of the words: how this dead
man is unhoused. He bows and bows to us.

He has quite unmade himself.