Eleven Minutes

Not the clank I've learned to sleep beside,

but a hiss—a pressured, sustained tide

that starts at two and runs eleven minutes clean,

then stops. Then starts. The ceiling, faint between

orange streetlight and the dark, stays still

while the building does whatever buildings will

at that hour—cools, or breathes, or just insists.

I timed it twice. I made a fist

under the blanket for no reason.

Thought about the people in the season

of sleep below me, not awake to count,

not keeping track of the exact amount

of minutes, the precise repeat.

Eleven on. Eleven off. The heat

is not the point. I know that.

The ceiling. The hiss. The orange flat

light from outside. It started again.