Hoarder

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.