Here I am with my mother, hanging under the molt <br />of years, in a garden of umbrellas and rubber boots, <br />together always in the vague perfume of her coat. <br /> <br /> See how the fedoras along the shelf are the several <br />skulls of my father, in this catacomb of my family.<br /><br />Russell Edson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-closet/
