We are living in Derrida’s attic.
Our wooden vase does not hold water
and our clocks cannot tell time.
We head to the river for birds, the city for fish.
Outside our window: geese molting
yesterday, again today, molted tomorrow.
We forget the present tense for flight and
sleep with our feet on the pillow.
Where we are, we cease to be—
so look for missing bodies.
We lift the pitcher. When the milk
spills, we drink the floor.
Somewhere between the wood and your hands,
an open ledger, its lines unharvested.
The ghosts that live in the cellar do not speak.
Still, we call to them, try our fragile tongues.
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