Poem of the Week |18| Attic
Attic
Dust
is particles
of dead skin, among other
things stored here; a Christmas tree chopped
in boxes like a magician’s trick, trapped
dreams
in school notebooks,
rusting pieces of hobbies
abandoned, the long gone still staring
from broken-framed photos. Cobwebs
hang
from wooden beams
how I imagine the man
across the road hanged in his attic;
some words in a paper, in a box here.
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