Strange to think they live within,

mimicking our every mundane move.

There are those who believe

they would cease to exist

without us: with no flesh to hold up,

organs to cradle, unsheathed

of all practical purpose.

But perhaps it is they who set loose

our dreams at night—

in order to climb out while we sleep,

wash unattended in moonlight,

try on various shadows.

They love the music of a still house.

Pale bric-a-brac. Quiet unnecessary things.

Instead of speaking, they rock

slowly in each room, fingering the dust.

Now and then, they reach for one another

and tap their blueish bones.