STATIC HYMN

By Tim Reaper

The ceiling light stutters

like a guilty witness.

In the socket,

a nest of copper tongues

licks the dark awake.

You press your ear

to the wall

and hear it—

the thin, bright choir

of current

dragging its chain.

Somewhere inside you,

a smaller room

fills with smoke.

Your name is written

in melted insulation,

in blistered plastic prayers,

in the soft-pop

of a heart

overloading.

When you finally cry,

it comes out

as sparks—

brief, bitter stars

that die

before they reach the floor,

as if grief

has learned

to travel

through wires

instead of veins.

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