The Constant

At three a.m. the house is much too wide,

a hollow chest where breathing feels like noise.

The lights are off, the secrets crawl inside,

and I have lost the knack for steady poise.

Then the compressor kicks its heavy gear,

a low-frequency shudder through the wall.

It’s the only voice that I can stomach here,

the only thing that doesn't let me fall.

Inside the door, the milk carton begins

to tremble on its rack of silver wire.

It counts my failures and it counts my sins

until the morning starts its graying fire.