Aging Bundles of Debris

at seven locked in a cold cellar where bulbs hang to dry in damp darkness of night sleds posed for winter play near steep piles of wood, one on top of one tin buckets filled with sand a graveyard for mice who crept into a wooden trap garden gloves stiff yellow paint dry metal cans left open newspapers cover a wooden door near an oval window up three steps to the outside a door nailed shut where little, little feet feel loose cement seven spider webs hang far above my head I see it now... I feel it now... as if someone locked me into the cellar at seven, a hideout below reality still smell dampness feel the cold, see colors... all senses clear not that I am blind.