Sediment

The metal ribs began their ticking heat,

filling the room with the smell of singed hair.

I knelt on the floor to scrape out the grit,

poking the butter knife into the air

trapped in the fins where the grey felt grows.

I pulled a heavy roll out of the dark,

matted and thick as the skin of a mouse.

It’s the skin we shed, the fiber of clothes,

the quiet, grey sediment of the house,

waiting for a spark to leave its mark.