This house makes strange noises

This house makes strange noises when I’m alone,

And when the wind blows it chills skin and bone.

I may be six-one with Y chromosome;

That won’t stop murder from haunting my home.

Big men, too, are easy prey when they’re prone.

 

An old foundation will happen to groan

But not with such purpose, not at a drone,

Not as if counting by some metronome:

This house makes strange noises.

 

I can’t escape the dark, nor the unknown,

Nor the ways loneliness the senses hone

As through my memory harsh spirits comb

Brandishing sins with hot vengeful aplomb,

Calling to me with my flesh to atone—

This house makes strange noises.