Where shall I hide my things? —Emily Dickinson The attic: separated for eternity from its twin, the basement, by architects and their congregation, who
Crook-armed acacia bark all split and sedimentary, branches dissolving into green feathers without control of air. Shadow like a snake’s back—all mottle and shift.
Sheet metal sun, tally of dead leaves, dogs, a rabbit darting into a slot between wood pile n’ pickets. Little sister tile saw, little