We are dying in a house made of
things we can't throw away.
Trash in collumns keeps our paper ceiling
from collapsing on our bodies in the refuse.
We've dug tunnels around piles of
things we've piled on things in piles of
we don't know what it was, anymore,
and I don't know when it got here,
and I don't think there's enough space in the world to put it
if we even tried to move it, and I'm starting to doubt
we ever will.
Stale air has strangled the ivy pot you brought
and pedestaled by the door before
we introduced the furniture-
and now the years of mail we've left on the bench, there,
have just avalanched, drowning his last flush of green
in the words we never heard,
and my house is coming apart! To pieces!
Splinters, missed chances, giving up, falling down,
we have buried our bodies in the refuse while our eyes were closed.
(I saved the ivy. He's going to miss you.
We are living in a world made of
things we can't throw away.)
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