Night opens a door into a cellar—
you can smell it coming —William Stafford “Sayings of the Blind”

Damp folds of darkness,
in the grip of last October’s onions wrap around you. Cool rot of mildewing mistakes hidden under folded feed sacks. Thick stink of tainted trust seeps from bulging lids on Mason jars.
This is the home of broken things: bikes, a washer, your word.
Rusted. Past fixing. Over your shoulder, spores rise, scatter on creaking stairs. Pale stars dot a rectangle of sky . Night hovers, tang rising from Pippins, Winesaps, Delicious, tonic as coming clean.