The boiler room sounds like a temple
soft chanting
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
three sparrows
miraculously appeared there
in quick succession.

Or maybe it was the same
tenacious bird

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
once again

reborn
in the hot
barren
holy land
of the boiler room.

I dream of sparrows on olive branches.

(March 2002)