and pipes taking corners
like ivy, crawling
the ceiling. vents
like night-time animals,
creeping through corners
of space. and plantroom
is the right
name for this place underneath
of the building –
all these secret power lines,
snaking into
holes. and Pat
shows me around
at lunchtime, talking about
the systems
like a man who breeds horses
for love.

“this is for air pressure.”
“this one for gas.” I follow
dumb and frightened
as a pet dog
in a new apartment.

around, engines rattle
quite peaceably
like bears
in a hibernating
cave.