The first fall it stayed in the shoebox
in the closet
in the hall
it talked to itself about the dog
that once ran its tongue along the lid of the box
that went away when it heard a sound
that never came back
in the spring it discovered
it could unlearn the night
and its own imperfections
now it is summer: stuffy, warm, deep
and still it lies in the shoebox
but a tendril has started to dig through the floor
drawing its strength from the rotten wood
driving its thin brain steadily into
the other side of consciousness
if we could hear we would hear of its
heaving, its
comically serious
Bulgarian weightlifter
grunts, feel
the house slip.
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