looking out
at the next block
at the curtains on the next block
at the shadows opening cupboards
and closing them, noiselessly
at housewives washing dishes
framed by socks on window grilles
at wooden slots for air-cons
at rushy holders for washing poles
is to feel as if
one is viewing a wall
at a columbarium
at ghosts behind plaques
hunting for their souls
in drawers, in woks
in the television box
is to laugh, a little sadly,
because even gravestones
have names.