Every night before bed, I lock
the front door, but in the morning
I can’t find those metal teeth,
those brassy mountains,

those little saws that lock it
from the outside. I can’t remember
what they are called or where
inside I set the memory

of setting them down.
In the night I’ve jerked awake
to the sound of footsteps
and found it’s only springs

creaking in the mattress
when I breathe in, out,
in, out. It’s my own filling
and emptying. No one’s broken

or entered. I still remember
one night in the beginning
of our brief life together:
the neighbors left for the bar,

and your roommate boosted me
to an open window, climbing in
behind. We took nothing,
only rearranged the furniture.

When they came home
and found everything wrong,
they must have sworn
something was missing.