epistemology

i'm living between 2 closets. one on the ceiling
& one on the floor. this is the closest to the truth
this poem will get. i wrote the name "ashley"
in my poetry notes & i wish i could remember
what that was supposed to mean. the one closet
is full of dead birds & the other one is full of
all the clothing my dad wants to own:
just 2 pairs of white pants & a few nice button-ups. 
the dead birds are all not quite dead if you
know what i mean. i'm keeping a great huge secret 
in the closets. it's so huge it brings the birds
almost back to life. my dad is in the closet:
physically i mean. he's folded himself like
a pair of pants. i'm sitting in between with 
nothing more to wear. if you live long enough
you will start to run out of clothing.
my brother said to me today that really 
the phenominon of clothing not fitting is 
pretty recent because everyone used to make their clothes
or have them made. this is true but 
people still out grew their pants. there were still
articles of clothing that became suddenly useless.
there's someone named ashley somewhere & they were
supposed to make it in this poem but now they're
walking around mahattan without an eternity.
maybe they're wearing dead birds from my closet.
maybe they died a long time ago & their mother 
sewed all their dresses. 
as if the poem will last. a poem is like 
a good pair of pants. i've watched my dad
make a pair last from 8th grade to now. 
the knees: thread bare. his knees beneath 
moving like two ghosts. the closests doors
open without warning. drop a dead bird here
a dead bird there. they are so much 
like baby dolls. i dress them in infants clothes 
& slip them back into the closet doors.
everything we know about each other
is dressed in clothe. i'm allergic 
to my room so i never leave. i want to learn
immunity from the coat hangers who 
take body after body & give them gravity. 
ashley is thinning now. collapsing into
a closet & falling asleep amoung 
the other metaphors.