within a house, silence demands rupture,
a surface tension always at a point
of no return but never leaving. the roof
holds the exterior together, just as the edges
of your lips keep your tongue and your teeth
from flying out. and the weight of each
floor presses the center into the ground
the way your foot does in the mud
as you stumble away. every night
pulls itself inward, a slow and steady intake
of breath before bursting into exhaustion. i run
my hands over dead leaves and listen
for the promises that a set of nails makes
before being driven into concrete. if only
the grass were as warm.