The boiler room sounds like a temple
muffled groans of prayer.
Off-limits, it stands
across from my bedroom
and buzzes with activity while I sleep.
I dream of olive groves.
In the summer
miraculously appeared there
in quick succession.
Or maybe it was the same
The Lazarus of soot and pipes.
Wings beating against the walls
Heart beating against my fingers
when I rescued it
and set it free only to find it
in the hot
of the boiler room.
I dream of sparrows on olive branches.