The Slow Turn

Another night,

another warm sheet

tangled at my feet.

And the fan above,

a slow, dull hum.

Like a tired thought

going nowhere.

Its blades, slightly curved,

a coat of fine dust

just visible

in the spill of light

from the hallway crack.

Each rotation

a sigh, a click,

a hypnotic drag.

It stirs the air,

but doesn't change it.

Just moves the same hot breath

around and around.

Casts shadows,

long and lazy,

on the popcorn ceiling.

A kind of motion

that isn't going anywhere,

just marking time,

like me,

awake,

watching.