Bellows

The radiator died at half past two

and took the ticking of the pipes away.

The nightmare left me cold and soaked in dew,

with nothing but the dark and things to say.

It’s a scraping sound, a tide inside the chest,

wet and rhythmic, pulling through the nose.

I never noticed how I cannot rest

while this machinery comes and goes.

I am a house that’s haunted by its own air,

a lung that’s laboring to keep the beat.

It’s too much noise for one person to bear

under the heavy pressure of the sheet.