The attic is large
with various pasts,
childhoods dried like snakeskins,
things of parents dead and living.
At night, there are scrabbles,
persistent scratchings.
(In the morning, nothing is disturbed).
Outside, the roof is
creature-gnawed,
eaten away.
There is no sanctuary here,
winds blow through
with intensity and malice.
(You will never leave).
The rooms have been painted the palest green.
Shelves are nailed to the wall,
cannot be emptied of all their things
dusty with the past.
