Nesting on the outline of a window
a little broken handle used to turn
the grating system now clogged with rust
& silt. I once clouded rooms one
was afraid to stay in for fast escape.
Back then you could place your lips
on the center hole & blow to start
the steam churning. This kind of work
blotted out the sun on a June day. Masked
the open blue sky with a thick gray
making each seer drunk. On my last
day you held me close to your heaving
middle, fingers in every open corner try-
ing to turn me on. Chaffed ash singed
your face as I steamed to life, groaning
under heavy pressure. I broke from burning
too hot, from rolling smoke that scorched
your throat. Cut this body into slats
then stack me out back next
to the coal hole. First, throw one last
pebble down my esophagus so I know
how a soul might one day feel.
