Beyond the clawing lace webs of spiders, secrets crouch.
They are on dusty leaning-down shelves, in the shifting light of a far corner.
Who comes here, past the red iron flank?
Secrets come. This is where they reside:
In the twitching summer light, peeking through boards.
Come feel the dirt floor against your skin.
Sit in the corner and weep. Stand in the shadow and howl.
Seek the light, the quiet corner, the dusty chair.
Close your eyes. Listen.
It is the footfall of time, a spider at work, a mouse in his hole.
It is your imagination, the flick of a bird.
It is the laugher of children, the awful sob of love lost