The first fall it stayed in the shoebox
in the closet
in the hall

it talked to itself about the dog

that once ran its tongue along the lid of the box
that went away when it heard a sound
that never came back

in the spring it discovered
it could unlearn the night
and its own imperfections

now it is summer: stuffy, warm, deep
and still it lies in the shoebox

but a tendril has started to dig through the floor
drawing its strength from the rotten wood
driving its thin brain steadily into
the other side of consciousness

if we could hear we would hear of its

heaving, its
comically serious
Bulgarian weightlifter

grunts, feel
the house slip.