Nine acres of sharp, dry grass and a place; shuttered, closed,

green-mossed windows shield the still foam clouds

and flies on cluttered sills.

This life, your store of cold meat does not appeal to me,

and cherries hold sour memories;

A secret told in the root cellar

Was meant to clear the air

but sent me wild to city walls,

deaf with Verdi, sick with fear.

I sit in lakes, pick leeches from my hair,

wring water from my skin,

weighted by things I almost had.

Bad decisions made.