Nine acres of sharp, dry grass and a place; shuttered, closed,
green-mossed windows shield the still foam clouds
and flies on cluttered sills.
This life, your store of cold meat does not appeal to me,
and cherries hold sour memories;
A secret told in the root cellar
Was meant to clear the air
but sent me wild to city walls,
deaf with Verdi, sick with fear.
I sit in lakes, pick leeches from my hair,
wring water from my skin,
weighted by things I almost had.
Bad decisions made.