The Ceiling Fan's Logic

The ceiling fan orbits a single point,

chopping the stagnant air into slices.

I’ve been awake since the car alarm

yelped three blocks away and then died,

leaving a hole in the night

that the silence is too thin to patch.

I trace the cracks in the plaster,

mapping the things I said in the heat

of a July that should have stayed buried.

The resentment has a sour, metallic taste.

On the nightstand, the digital clock

projects a green '4:12' into the glass

of lukewarm tap water. It looks like

a drowning signal, shivering and small.