superego in the attic

david thinks of gideon in the
attic gideon would be there,
great eyes by the dormers, until
they became eyes,

and looked over
a sundial shadow
in the coverlet garden-

but the fleece would
gather dust. no one uses
the attic much to look
at lights, faraway, never
to tell time never to
stand

simply, among the small windows-
david would
be gideon. on the wooden
stairsteps, choked heavy, david's
small mouth,

with thick
dust, like fleece-

gideon about the mountains,
the red mountains he would see
above the house, david would
dream of him saving man,
by the mountains-

and david stood by
the eyed door- it was small,
like his

small mouth,
david would not see the mountains,
they would be far
off,

the attic as dry as a leather hilt,
hard against
david's hand