The Drill Bit

The drill starts up again.

Three quick bursts, then silence, then

three quick bursts, like a code

I'm not meant to understand.

It's past ten.

Plaster dust, a fine white snow,

falls from the crack

above my head.

A tiny glacier, growing

from their relentless

need to fix

or break

something,

right above my sleep.

My own ceiling,

their personal excavation site.