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.