You say You want to be Unearthed, unshelled, Reborn. But I watch you Burrow ever deeper In your putrid nest of things, things, things You keep Because they once pleased Or reminded you Or might, you thought, Be useful— Someday. But I don’t believe, Mother, That you will build that clean new house. Or that you’ll ever move there. I think past and future Are yolks Of one egg. I think You are feathering Your tomb.