Real
You don't come home anymore.
All your days are houses
that don't need building.
You use your hands
to hold the things
that don't let go
before you do:
water taps, newspapers,
food you unwillingly eat
just to feed those who love you,
who remember for you
the necessary lives,
the mornings that repeat their erasures;
memory folding its glances.
Now is the time
to be utterly useless,
to let all but the real
fall away from us.