I shut the noon out of the room, lie under the low roof's breath. The keyhole holds one thread of dark darker than the rest. I bring the word that calls me clean to quiet me to sleep. I've told it till it tells itself. Tonight it stays in my mouth. Every breath I take comes back small. The room is closer than the wall. I can't breathe it out. I can't lay it down. The name I hold is holding me down. I can't breathe it out. I start it over one more time, the part where I was right. The breath runs out three words too soon and leaves it in my throat. I raise my hand before my eyes. No light to read it by. The ceiling's found another inch it didn't have by day. Breath comes back smaller still. The wall is at my ribs. I can't breathe it out. I can't lay it down. The name I hold is holding me down. I can't breathe it out. I open my mouth in the dark to say the whole word plain, the word that calls me clean. Half of it gets out. The room takes back the rest. The dark lies down on my chest. I can't breathe it out. I can't lay it down. The name I hold is holding me down. I can't breathe it out. Morning in the keyhole now, thin as it ever was. I still know every word of it. I just can't breathe it out.
