For me, no garret, no loft, no sky parlor. Only
some space below pitch. Fill my space
to slanted roof. I am known for being
awkwardly shaped. I bare rafters and
am difficult-to-access. To assess. To accentuate.
Convert me. I can be your window, your staircase,
your neglected, hard-to-get storage. I am no
mass of unmoving air. Rise from lower floors,
get trapped, compound my reputation: Inhospitable.
Don’t insulate, decrease my cost. I have no
boarded floor, no ceiling. Windows and skylights
pale to my chester drawers and failed projects—
copper etched trophies, holidays,
a briefcase bulged with Kennedy newspapers,
three generations of shoes, those pieces of
the carousel you had begun to build, wooden
tops creaking in stale whirls of fans.
Remember how they glimmer in filtered light.
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