It’s like creeping into a root cellar
Down tilted stairs
Like the lifting of a jaunty cap
But off
Like the old man on the corner
Who thinks you’re his wife, lost years ago.
The dirt is close
And if you’re quiet
Roots and worms
And digger burrowers whisper
In slow secrets.
It’s dark but
Not quite comfortable
But safe.
It seems safe.
The dim outline of the day above
Glows from the door
Winking like another man
Across another room
How many lifetimes ago was that?
You retreat into the close damp
Of a corner
And don’t know how to want to get out.