There is an attic in my house I never go
yet all is there: the past in suitcases and wood,
in plastic, covered up in dust; the present in chaotic piles
of things that stay but ought to go.
I won’t go there, not for a while, and
in an empty corner rests the future. Or not at rest
but haunts at night and cracks the floor.
It all is there but why, what for?