The ladder of the attic has

Two broken steps.

One below the second to last

And another two below,

Nailed together fast.

Climbing it is to retrieve or leave

In the attic there is what is not lost

What machinery and technology has

Affected below is slow to change within the

Space of this frame, captured and aging

Dozens of lineages interwoven in fabric of flesh and space

Passing and coming

Layers of paint applied, chipped, reapplied

Passing and coming

Renovation and movement

The pilled finish of worn socks, well past their useful life

Persist in their guaranteed mortality outside of the attic

The silk sensation of cotton against polished wood,

Comfortable as the lunar quilt.

Ascension into a permeable cell of purgatorial pasts

By way of steps not born to last,

There is no light in the attic

A failed

Shadow’s final repast.