BEASTS

Time lingers

quietly in attics.

Romantics are

always fingering

some discolored

fabric or other,

feeling a deep

nostalgia for sepia,

a mellow sadness

at what keeps

but yellows.

But other people

don’t trust ambering

or court the filigrees

of rust. They’ve

seen lost greens

of memory ignite,

dead dogs released,

and don’t invite

the rainbow beasts.