It used to start the same, the same far light
Cubed, and blurring doorjambs up two levels
Where a God waits livid in the attic’s night.
I climb the stairs, hair raised, dishevelled.
A moaning drones. I stop. The light goes out.
Pitched and piteous, the voice engrafts
Its song into my skull. I pass the grout-
Caked entrance black as a mine’s caved shaft
And feel the pine boards buckle and break.
A wing or feather whisks my brow, and frozen
In one spot, then fading fast (I can’t awake,
This is no dream), recall being chosen
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