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Whose was the hand then
around the bolted door
that first night in the house
empty for decades
beyond the dark floor piled with rubble
while outside the broken panes only the long
unseen cold grass of spring was stirring
one hand like a gray rag fluttering
unmistakable in the black doorway
inching toward the bolt as though
a wind were pushing it from behind
and a dim light going before it
leading this way this way
the swallows in the beams
never stirred in their own furled sleep
no sound came from the cracks in the walls
Even if it went away
I would have seen it
even if it did nothing
it would know I had come
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