The air in the attic
Is as warm as a tear,
Dry as salt.
My movement made a shaft of light
Of the July sun, as it rips
Through the fly-freckled window.
There is an odor of forget
And dry mouse leavings,
Like a tomb.
I came to look at dead things,
Bits of dreams and discarded pieces
Of well lived lives.
Just now, I feel that breathing
Is not wanted here.
Smoky Quartz 