The hole in the roof of the garage across the road
just spoke to me, said how much it wanted me,
that I should clamber up, lean in, let go. It offered me
a musty kind of sleep in with all the things it stores,
 
the piles of junk the rain has long caressed, dressed
now in spores of mould and wrapped in grime. It said
it wanted me, and that meant sexually, but also love,
and also quite like food—to swallow and digest.
 
It is a foolish hole to think that it could call to one like me
whose flat is dry and warm, and yet, now that it’s silent,
I miss that gravel sound, the voice that drew me in.
 
I think of how the rain would feel as it caressed
my cheek, and I imagine grime, and a furry coat of mould
against my skin, and hope that it will speak again.