Shelter for the sinful word,
o drawer, odyssey so vast,
made of oak, homeric!
You will be the coffin
that once served as a cradle,
sinister imagination’s respite,
a hollow for words
written in whisper,
condemned for eternity under the table.
The table — that horned quadruped
will carry you through the years
and one day
from a green hope
you keep hidden in the dark,
a golden autumn will fly out —
yellowed words, not mine.
O drawer made of oak, homeric,
knots sealed long ago,
fractured whorls!
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