the attic spawns a clumsy ghost
who rumbles, tumbles, over spokes
and in between the shafts and gears—
he hasn't spoken for several years.
so like the light pouring through the shades,
like sunshine triumphs when they're raised,
he seeks a willing ear to hear:
his jaw cracks open when you're near
and rust pours from his open mouth,
his throat a squeaking, reeking spout.
still words evade his crumbled mind,
synapses shrink from the glowing rinds
that were the words he meant to share,
that form the burden he's meant to bear.
what can't be spoken lies heavier still
on an embodied, spiritual will:
back to the attic, where he'll stay
oiling his hinges for an articulate day.