Your children are ghost driven

Your children are ghost driven

Your children are ghost driven,
their tiny voices hoarse.
Lamp post, glowing rusted
light against dark.
Rattle of loose pram wheels,
of growing into hearse bones.
Your oldest flat on the pavement,
his dome cracked open,
a blue yolk inside. Dying direction
of idolatry, of fathers.
 
Your internal clock clicks
midnight midnight midnight.
Sticking up to centrifugal heaven,
your dreamspine—
Look up:
a balance of shoes,
strung on telephone lines,
buzzing nonsense. Headspun.
Starstruck. Skull down
in two hands, like the family cat.