Each spin cycle is a heart
pounding through the concrete floors.
I fall asleep to shirts and socks
colliding like planets,
to lint rising in secret constellations.

Neighbors argue in curses
about the rent, about God,
their words riding the ceiling fan’s
slow blades.

I dream of detergent bubbles
blown into galaxies,
my body one of them, orbiting,
thinning, then vanishing:
not death, exactly,
but the soft collapse of foam
into air.

Morning: heat from the dryers
presses up through the floor,
a ghost’s embrace.
I stand at the window watching
pigeons scatter from the roof—
gray confetti for no one’s wedding.