by Tom Moore

    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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