in the attic

in the attic, or the suspended wire

talking over wine
he says that memory is
a delicate web;

infinitely thin
silken threads linking all our
dreams, shames, and knowledge.

as time slips through the
waist of the hour glass, the
web evolves, rebuilds.

once supported by
the magical structure of
our mind, riches and

shiney treasures rot,
becoming ancient relics,
attained only by

a single quaking
tendril, a clothes line clinging
among the ruins.