the eighth lapse: attic(s)

like slumber, this echo
of silence in the rich dust
of the highest pitch on the tallest
mount.
impenetrable tomorrow
lost in the sound of the antique
quilts and stitches and frying
pans. and as you look you wonder how
voices brought you here to this place and why
this place somehow reaches out as a meadow when
out of a forest of snow you've crept and now witness aware,
like a toppled reverie, a choice beauty of favor in the rampant
purple of the violets and scent of strawberry blossums and freedom
of spirit!
How is it then drunk now
in the dusty twilight
the browns of boxes simmer in ugly light
and yesterday clings to life? Is this the place of legacy?
The empire of an unknown spirit? The fallacy
of the promised soul? The soft embrace
of a melodic memory born unto the dirty mirror
facing you?

Or is the attic just a place of lost evenings? A chest
of the displaced? A sentence never written
but imprisoned just the same
for the sake of surrounding death with the familiar
whispers of recollection's breath.

like echo, like thunder
the slow slumber of the windows
pestering night for more darkness
less light on the carcass of the rotting
past! less joy that now is upon us
the crumbling madness
of stars and the far away
sound of the unreturned
stares...
an attic is a gallery under repair