"They Are Not Talking"
The radio sits quietly
and fixes her hands.
She stares at the TV.
He counts backwards from one hundred.

They no longer share a socket. The radio
unplugged the TV, and they wrapped themselves
up in their own wires.
The safety of static and unspoken signals.

She watches the toaster-
it smells like the bread is burning.
Everything (not just the woods) is on fire.
She thinks he lit the match.

He focuses on the carpet that she picked out.
Now he thinks they were better off
biting their tongues and staying clear
Of sockets and shorting out.

The room has had a heart attack.
It is not breathing. All oxygen has gone
to the fire. The quiet sucked up the heartbeats.
Maybe it's better this way.