Attics
In the attic it is very dusty and full
of mice poop and stray nails
the floorboards creak with every effort
moaning as monotone is born into the world.
As me, today the way I stray into my morning with ghost-like precision
drifting past the fringes of others
who once saw me with frightening clarity
The brushstroke swept clouds invisible
no heat from the sun on my neck, none of God’s little creatures loitering across my notebook
All meaning very little
as in no symbolism, as in no resurrection, as in
this is it. A crumb of what it could have been
The nail rips from wood
but it only feels that way and there is no tomorrow
no returning to scalding yellow sun
it's gleeful boiling
of you, in the pot you once coveted
