Attic

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 Attic 


What I like is how you can see beneath 

the veil of paint and plaster, couch 

cushion and lamplight, can see how the soft


illusion of home is just insulation 

stuffed between studs some guy with a belt nailed 

together at the right angles. The world tilts


at a sharper pitch here, crouched beneath

steel teeth reaching for the tender meat 

of your scalp, but I like how I can say 


just what part of me aches, can trace back

the truss beneath the fluff and know just what I'm

reaching for. And then, it’s even nice


to remember how easy it would be to fall

beneath what I once thought

the floor, tearing through the drywall


to find myself indistinguishable 

from any other well-meaning pile of dust 

who thought he knew where to trust his weight.


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