by Felix Jung
Under this rubble of blankets, I rub
my feet like a man trying to spark fire
from sticks. An oak is waving a thick
hand beyond my window, sifting through
the moonlight. Outside, I hear street lamps
charging, each bulb a violinist holding
to a thin, emotive note. The furnace yawns
and in response the metal vents begin
to stretch and shudder. The refrigerator
coughs, then hums as though in meditation.
On my chest my cat is sleeping, and I feel
her purring in my ribs. The blood that travels
through my body like a metronome is pulsing
softly, in my ears. I sigh, and feel my breath
exciting molecules of air above my head.
What rest? What sleep? What hope have I when
all the world is noise and motion, singing me
its lullabies, so full and shivering with life?