I regret that I do not write in an attic,
that the air is not musty,
nor the skylight caked in grime,
jamming the sun but for a few insistent rays.
Nor are there webs in every corner,
patrolled by venomous spiders.
Not a bloodstain on the floor.
Nor a skull on a shabby dresser. |
 |
And sorry there’s no rusty trunk at the far end of a garret
that no living soul dare open. |
|
The room in which I write is bright and clear.
Enough windows to start a greenhouse.
You could drink coffee out of the cup
that holds my pens.
No dust on desk. No insects nibbling on the paper. |
|
But I regret even more so that my mind is an attic.
So musty the air up there
And pity the skylight of the brain, so grimy,
so resistant to the merest hint of brightness.
Webs thread every ganglion, crawl with beasts.
And every thought’s a bloodstain,
so says my skull on its dresser drawer. |
|
That there’s a rusty trunk at the far end of my imagination
goes without saying. |
