The Shift

The motor is a rusted throat

clearing itself at five a.m.

The chain drags the heavy metal tooth by tooth

up into the dark mouth of the ceiling.

In my kitchen, the wall shivers.

The spoon in the sink begins to walk,

a slow, silver twitch across the porcelain,

clinking against a bowl of cold milk.

It’s the sound of someone else’s living

sliding into my sleep like a blade.