Pressure in the Chest

There is a hangman
draped in emerald on the wall.
Palms pressed flat
on wooden boards and nail-
heads bent up over their edges
like they could pray from their
exposed tips. Someone
calls up from the floor
for the curtains to be drawn,
nobody needs to be seeing
the room going dark,
but the hangman presses
harder into the steel.
Slowly bends and stirs his hands
through the soft moisture
of air—cheek against cheek,
breathing mutual lovers of erupted
nights. Lips to the floor,
the room falls black
and sky spills into him,
swell after swell.