Accumulation

I reached up to flip the winter switch

and the world came down in a heavy, gray rain.

A thick felt of everything I’ve ignored

landed on my mouth and my sweater.

It’s the skin of the room, shed in secret,

a quiet silt that gathered while I slept.

It’s been months since I looked at the ceiling.

Now I’m breathing in the ghosts of the summer

and the hair of a dog that died in July.