The boxes are swollen
and tense, holding their breath

I lie on the floor and
the stacked boxes tower
threatening to topple

At the weekend friends come around
and the boxes gasp open, books
spill onto shelves
, computer networks
assemble themselves, and packaging
leaps into the loftspace

Now, the silence spoons me, and I hear
all the tiny sounds of the house:
the faraway whoo of the boiler
flue, the spluttering exhalation
of the fridge

And, like the boxes, I am
learning to breathe again

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