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  • The brink over which we pour Odd items we can't find Enough cubic inches to store In house, in mind
  • Come to by a clamber Up steep unsteady heights  Of beds without a dreamer  And lamps that no hand lights.
  • Here lie discarded hopes That hard facts had to rout: Umbrellas- naked spokes By wind jerked inside-out,
  • Roof shingles bought on sale That rotted on their roof, Paintings eternally stale That, hung, remained aloof,
  • Pink dolls with foreheads crushed, Eyes petrified in sleep. We cast off with a crash What gives us pain to keep.
  • Maneuvering steep stairs Of bedsprings to our car, We stumble on homecanned pears Grown poisonous in their jar
  • We turn now to return  To our lightened living room, The acrid smell of trash Arises like perfume
  • And nearly gash an ankle  Against a shard of glass. Our emptiness may rankle, But soon it will pass.
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