Lungs a tenement, swollen, easy to move into.
Hair-clogged, bathtub a standing pool.
The ground floor is sublet by a fevered tenant
who wallpapers with wet newspaper and wheatpaste.
Water slips through a valve’s loosened fist. Drip.
A building of wood rot and mice, back alleys
cluttered with bone, shit, small bodies.
Lungs: welfare’s small-change jar.
Plastic, whispery, just for now.