It’s that my bedroom walls Are two cupped hands, clammy And cradling, how it feels inside Of a sliced fish, pink sometimes Too, like the gums lining eyes Under a Spring sun But they’re painted green, The green of spotty mold florets And planks with split ends Shine like ironed dyed auburn hair Molded in a cheap wax, That never melts, Though the desk lamp cheaply Spotlights the thumbtacked Rubric by the impotent light switch And makes the doorknob warm By association, it’s nice and still So that I stay in here, developing Absorbing phrases like “the Activation of relational defenses” Or ornamental gems from The despondent Russian savants, Even things that may be useless (How to Clean Everything is turned, binding back, bristles out, beneath Popular Card Games, and I don’t Own a deck of cards) that I still Open and snack on in times Of disorientation, and to go out Would crumple the whole, delicate Cocoon, the paper cloister, the Draft that wafts around my hard and Numb toes would escape And I’d dry up like a defunct worm