Houseroom for things you forget or try to imagine: a saw, two planks of plywood, a jam jar of nails, the shredded fibres of a doormat returning to hair, a coal scuttle, pair of breathless bellows— implements in their places, for love, for sorrow— and something immeasurably near, nudging the hardware.
It’s where you put things, see? Out of sight, on hold. They wait, unredeemed, unclaimed, for decades or more where a windless chronic air lags and corrodes. Is it in there, still? That ancient, reflex scare, a dream of hiding, trapped under infinite stairs, bolthole for never quite knowing no one’s there
except oneself, fooled in childhood fears— unless, even so (yird-hunger rooting for the cold where last we found them, stored among signs and wonders, holed among rusty…
