the huming of heat wafting from repainted registers

The climb up into the snow filled stoop
the falling flakes make a feeling of surprise allover
A trash container, feeling weighted with sand
helps me reach the sill of the building dated 1903

Smooth corners and dead ivy
rubber treads of boot cling to ice
Hands wishing for soft, warm memory
Once inside the day has passed

Stepping under vaulted ceilings, paint cans rest
discardedto the absence this makes clear, awkward silence
I have headphones clinging to my neck restricting my view
Some rooms have light switches, some only with lights

I have had conversations in this place
thick bandages fully wrapped around entirely from the waist up
motion sensor alarm from the attic, notified police
The beginning of terrible sickness with envy like the smell of candlewax

Tabletop canvas, rust flavored paint, stack of scratched CD’s
in two, groups of two, birds waist time in this heat
Making nests from abandoned wooden desk lined up in rows
lecture halls with graffiti chalked, there sits an overhead projector collecting dust

The intolerable witness of sound
In through tunnels cutting outward from building
We talk like children on holiday
We listen for voices other then our own, we listen for music

Hands full, collections of discarded books
a blue upholstered chair
the huming of heat wafting from repainted registers
hallways comprised of doorways

Saving trash cans on street corners

we were alone or alive or sleeping
inside the weather was great, almost tropical
I spill water in the kitchen for reminders
taping paper to the wall, paint it grey

Headphones, artificial sweetener, missing toothpaste caps
the cable to the toaster oven is white
Cardboard cutouts of butterflies
Trying to sleep with my hand folded over my mouth, very sleeping

Waiting for feet to catch up, walking in the night
Every house resembles a large orphaned zoo animal
no place for concrete rock shaped cave
no place for waterfall pumped into penguin lagoon

The traveling circus maybe, I say to my self
taking eight breaths in a row very slowly, very quietly
on fire like making tea while camping inside an old sock to strain
The leaves releasing small amounts of air over time

To the surface they break and open up into the air
The waves in the distance over the sand
We say out loud “we are plastic, we are melting plastic in this fire”
a garbage truck rolls by aimless, less amused