The Attic

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In the dim and frowzy waste
Piled, the used and unwanted
The out of sight and mind
Books, papers, chests, chairs
Broken parts of ourselves that
No longer work
Intending on some day never to come
The necessary time to fix
To heal, to make amends
But the cord below
Pulls at a stair that creaks
With rust, the living in lighted space
Too hard to make the venture
Into darkness, worth the hour’s
Unsettling glass, sand and fragment.

(Previously published in m.e.stubbs poetry journal, Vol.2, Issue 2, November 2000)

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