Most like, the people hadn’t paid their rates bill,
and that’s why you could see straight through that house,
where children multiplied ad infinitum,
and so did flowers, and so did cats and dogs.
Then, someone must have come for what was owing –
an inspector, or an emissary from heaven;
at first, the world inside was misted over,
and then it vanished; there was nothing left.
Once in a while, you’d see flit past a window
(no table visible inside, nor bed);
him (heavier) or her (more incorporeal),
him (growing gloomier) or her (more odd).
Perhaps, though, there had been no final invoice,
no eagle sent down by a thundering god:
the kids grew up, and left; the neighbours ditto,
the cats ran off or died; so did the dogs.
It’s quiet now. A light burns in the passage.
The blinds are one-third down all through the day.
And when I find I can’t help walking past there,
I want to turn my eyes the other way.