#8

View:

Words: my sister's alive and baking up in the attic

that lattice of maple and shelves to be baked

in the devil-egged sun, grinning frantic and angry

using sun-claws to rake out her delicate calm

her delicate posture, shattered out on the landing

that sanded small base at the spring of the stairs,

where bug-eggs and stair-dust moss thick on the stairs,

where half-eaten crackers call ants to the stairs;

it is any real wonder that we're thinking of winter,

when blankets assure us of destined-world warmth?

when the devil-eyed sun, we imagine, won't bake us,

and what fun it will be to take naps on the stairs?

how tender our mind-attics taste in the winter,

lit up softly with light thinking stairs thinking stairs

Music: Miles Above by Emancipator