In this room where the toilet is wrapped
with a ribbon, where the refrigerator
clears its throat and hums,
where the television clarifies
the wallpaper, the song of maids
making beds lingers
into the evening, its refrain all linen
and vacuums.
I move a chair to the window
and watch stars turn over their engines,
blast on their lights,
drive into the weep hours
when I will break my body's fast
on bread and coffee,
when I will shower the dead cells
into the guts of this building,
when I will walk on water,
when I will become a new man.