Night opens a door into a cellar—
you can smell it coming
—William Stafford “Sayings of the Blind”
Damp folds of darkness,
in the grip of last October’s onions
wrap around you.
Cool rot of mildewing mistakes
hidden under folded feed sacks.
Thick stink of tainted trust seeps
from bulging lids on Mason jars.
This is the home of broken things:
bikes, a washer, your word.
Rusted. Past fixing.
Over your shoulder, spores rise, scatter on creaking stairs.
Pale stars dot a rectangle of sky .
Night hovers, tang rising
from Pippins, Winesaps, Delicious,
tonic as coming clean.
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