At a house in Maine
Mined from the darkness
Of an old and faded attic
Photographs marry cobwebs
In a final shot at love.
Rummaging around I find books
From decades before my birth,
I watch my parents
Young as I, drift towards
The future, the consequence of days.
I read yellowed poems
And find the skulls of trapped mice
I find a door sealed for fifty years
Whose key was taken by former residents
Down along the coast and may now perhaps
Be in Tahiti or the dust
Of some distant, childhood drawer.
I pull a wad of pinkish paper
From a crack in the ancient rafters
And a perfect replica of 19th century light
Pours in to fill the room.