Structural

The bulb in the bathroom is failing,

flickering a yellow that makes my skin

look like old parchment.

I pull my stomach in

just to see the cage.

There’s a radiator shadow

pressing out against the flank,

six or seven bars of calcium

holding the lungs away from the air.

It’s too much space.

I can see the heart’s engine

thumping behind the third rail,

a desperate little animal

caught in a grate it built itself

to keep the world from getting in.