Every year, the young, bright sun arrives

and looks through every window. At everything

he’s missed. It’s then you see it: stardust caked

in every crack in the floor, leopardskin fingertips

camouflaged in the wall paint, scuffmark beards

left unkempt on the baseboards, spider-limbed

lint lying quiet under the bed, catclaw creases

ridged in the door frame, dirtclouds faintly huddled

in the bedroom carpet, the sticky darkness under the fridge

you always thought was a shadow. A day or so later,

rainclouds blanket the sky and fill the soles

of the outside shoes with water. The house is the same,

no less clean, but you sit in the gray light,

wondering when you’ll see him again,

forgetting about the truth he showed you.

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