attic
Sunlight like columns, leaning glass-golden searchlights through an ancestor's grave-house, dropping coins wherever they fall. Your eyes narrowing like a predator plotting a pounce, then distracted. Your hands like curious cats alighting on every surface, wicker and cherry-stained plaques. A note struck on the piano keyboard disturbing a haze of old-scented dust, out of tune B-flat. A tangential cough, old vinyl cowboy-leather splits under your elbow. Your arm slipping into a small angry maw, the past eating you alive and ejecting fake-dust foam motes. Small infinities in the air between us, whispering like auditors what compels you to hunt ghosts, while the living who love you count columns and piano-notes and leather-stitches.

©2001 Timothy A. Clark