The Evaporation

The furnace in my chest has quit.

I wake to find the sheets are slick,

a cold and heavy skin I didn't grow.

The clock says four, the light is thick

and gray against the bungalow.

I sit up and the room stays still.

No more voices in the wallpaper,

no more salt-flats in the mind.

Just the window and its winter vapor

and the mess I've left behind.

On the nightstand, a water glass

holds a lemon slice, dried to a crust.

It looks like a relic from a war

that turned the pillowcase to dust

before I finally touched the floor.