Up in the attic,
nature
struggling with the supernatural,
the
blood-mad poet writing with chain,
the
perfected dust of Alexandria.
is time
gnawing on the electrical cord,
a mouse’s
symbol for winter,
a
light-beam that’s been wandering for ages.
Where we
store the breath-coloured static
and
ravaged atoms of tears.
Where we
keep last season’s specters,
footprints
in time, blood in the footprints,
a rogue
angel waiting for nightfall,
her black
wing over a moon-ray
slid
between the latticed chinks,
whose god
is a false morning,
whose god
is a love that’s fossilized,
heaven an
unmined quarry,
hell like
a flood in the basement –
another
planet that’s said to exist.
Next door
to nowhere. To Babylon.
Up in the
attic is a shadow;
or it
might have been you in a previous lifetime,
that
worried fly not a fly at all
but the
voice a cinder is building.
The
suggestion of hands.
