by Brian Muriel

she faces west when

the oven of her head

churns to warm

taking in gas from tubes 

connected to outside lines and

clicking as it does 

being old and slow to fire

 

the waiting is a sort of living

a soft shine off a new coat of

paint holding light that

peters in from the slack of a curtain

 

the question comes

(she often wondered)

how much of our

own atoms need 

to mingle for us

to swirl in an atmosphere

before we disappear

 

a submission of being propped up

but profiled on an oak floor 

             of the environment but not in it