I like the amniotic hum the best.
That, or the rows of sudsy o’s
that rumble their quickening drums
in lapping turns.
Gathered strangers near-lulled to sleep.
A steepled book set down to rest.
A disappearing place
for meetings of the past,
their striplight glimmer
seems romance in their fewness.
But today I see they still have a part to play:
the anonymous sins of the home
are drained away.