Under the Peak

The air up here is mostly dead skin and heat.

I moved a bin and a moth just fell apart,

no bigger than a fingernail, gray and neat,

a tiny, hollowed-out piece of a heart.

A single rib of light cuts through the dust

where the roof beam has started to splinter and crack.

I found a jar of buttons, brown with rust,

waiting for sweaters that aren't coming back.

My sister is calling from the bottom of the stairs.

I’m holding a handful of plastic and glass,

surrounded by boxes of nobody’s prayers,

watching the afternoon stubbornly pass.