I would scrape my knees and palms
on the black bed of sharp edged coal corpses
lying like so many jews on the tiled furnace floor
It was here I would search for the past
in the deep shadow
with catydid shells
hanging like broken lightbulbs
bound in a circuitry of spider webs

It was here I would dig for
the remnants of dinosaurs
I read about in a book my
that arrived in the mail from my Great Aunt

I found a squirrel's skull once.

I have walked to the edge of a great body of water
and called up my cold skin
from below the water
rising on filaments of tangled hair
frozen and luminous
like a madmans chandalier of ice

And the assumption of skin is so like the first few minutes
between the hard starched sheets
that have lain cold for months
on a bed far too big for my body
in the guestroom of my grandparents house

The window cracked open,
January chills the smell
of staleness, age and oilsoap
my hair, electric on the stiff pillow

My feet are black with cinder stains.
And the dust on the floor is so cold
I can feel it even below the blankets