I can’t think of anything else
but this slow buzzing
the faint waves –
the stench, still squatting here as at last
the noise fades.
in the insomnight…
…and even then, the fear of fears –
ten minutes or less and sleep must be slept
[comes the humfmmfmm of the fucking fridge]
working its work, holding levels, avoiding peaks and
keeping cool constant, until again
(again) it stops.
Not a relief –
but the tension of loss,
like I’m quilted in its absence,
so much buzz, the plug-in to life,
pulsating the veins
in the tile
and the grout
Who could ever drop off
when they bed in a house
where power surges
and finds no way back out?