That noise, Mrs Kersey—were you listening?
A tin roof warping and booming…

Our sitting rooms connect like shears
into the screw-pin of our fires.

We share a bird’s nest in a common chimney.
If I’m right, you breathe, Mrs Kersey,

close as a dream-self on the other side.
This wall, if you just rubbed an eyelid,

is a bricked-up looking glass.
And wind across that roof’s a loss

of difference to whatever’s moving
privately through our heads this evening.  

Like the clicking of my jaw,
the tic-tac of your solitaire.