Do Not Unfurl

The basement is the middle of my house;
I sleep in tunnels
where midnight laundry carts are rolled
over floors so gleamy they slime,
or else in ship’s keep’s attics
jutting peripheral
to the directions of sound
every time I wake my name is new
or fetal on tearoom floors
nostrils engorged on sharpness
of urinal cakes.
The basement is the middle of my house;
I dream of sleeping.