THE ADDLED ATTIC

What vermin lie molting
in recessed corners; layered,

aging cloth, rusty sabres?

Doors unlock to parade
apparitions thought dead dust.

Howling persists behind locked doors;
awaiting  that day the dead-bolt lives.

How many more doors?

How many piles? Fleeting faces of phallic
frenzy; faded visages brandishing shame?

How many awakenings?

The past lives through a rear-view mirror.

Alice Parris