The night is a closed chest—

 

someone is standing inside

under its vaulted,

holy black cloisters…

 

two someones, and

another dozen: they jump

up and down,

up and down.

 

Up.

And.

Down.

 

And I angrily breathe

it’s not a goddamn bounce

house—a plangent sound

sandwiched between

a whistle, and a roof,

and I’m coughing

at the walls.

 

There’s a skipping

static of phlegm between the

archways—my diaphragm

is a disused sleeping bag now.

We sit up inside of it,

 

and those cloisters

are walmed white sometimes…

and those

damn kids won’t stop

their bitching up there,

 

and I’m banging

on the popcorned spackle

ceiling above—broken

broomstick, broken sleep,

broken me heaving;

 

filling the space up to

the brim, and I’m

standing inside it now

 

alone,

 

and I’m coughing,

and I’m whistling,

and I’m waiting to turn over.