We climbed through a broken window,
walked through every room.
Out of business for years,
the mattresses held only
rainwater, and one
woman’s black shoe. Downstairs
spiders had wrapped up
the crystal chandelier.
A cracked cup lay in the sink.
But we were fourteen,
and no way dust could hide
the expected glamour from us,
or teach us anything.
We whispered, we imagined.
It would be years before
we’d learn how effortlessly
sin blooms, then softens,
like any bed of flowers.
– Mary Oliver
