Smell how wet the log piles were, They always smell the same. Dry, except the crawlspace, the Earwigs take their name Wet, Like Grandfathers fireplace, Smoldering with the irons Squeaking in an old leather chair Part Claxon, ever-changing chyron Preserved Without a lid Left out, to be consumed Gelatinous and Sweet, But never Jiggling Fallen popovers Be our tomb Sometimes Dark and unyielding Stiff-starched sheets with a horsehair mattress Meant for crickets living in the ceiling And Pale Like our Aunt's Painting Motionless as a Pendulum Past be Passed and Dusk be Dawned Simple dreams confounded upon Til the morning burn and Yawn