Spillover

The radiator finally clicks and hisses.

The room is a white lung

full of wet, heavy heat.

I watch the water climb the porcelain

until it reaches the chrome circle

and begins that hollow, metallic drinking.

It’s a thirsty, gulping sound.

The world is held at the rim.

In the center of the foam,

a single hair, drained of its color,

rests like a wire.

It does not sink or sway.

It stays exactly where it is

while I am pulled under.