I Never Told Anybody
 
How I sweated it out by the broken trees
where moss and toadstools spread 
their dank smell, and shadow 
seeped through damp and rusting pine.  
Never mentioned the visit I made, 
how I groped along toward the old house 
and in fog and rain squeezed the bell, 
listened to its deep gong echo in those 
hollow rooms.  
How I tried to breathe in dusty air, 
while birds with faces and hungry mouths 
cried from the attic, and everything smelled 
burned and sour and dead.  
I never told how I spoke to the chairs, or how 
I greeted the stove and desk, wiped a window 
with my fist and sleeve.  I never said a word
about any of this, how it all melted and merged
and would not be gone.  And I’m not going to start now.