Gaping mouths grow from the craters etched
Into the plaster walls.
The bulbs in the ceiling sockets flicker and grow soft
And softer still,
Until I cannot be sure of whether
Or not
I am really here at all.

Honey,
Bloodwood sap,
And sweet orange marmalade flow
From the cracks, ooze
From the lips with murmurs,
And mingle with the air,
Coloring the low glow in such a way
That as I lay my eyes upon myself,
I do not see my flesh,
My hands
My feet.

Rather,
There upon my lap lies a form
Sculpted from the dead weight
Of terracotta clay,
Pushed, pulled, molded, pressed
Extruded through a die
By some unseen, unnatural force,
And set inelegantly on display.

In this moment,
I try to claim it as my own--
To move it in some way that feels natural, real
Or complete.
And yet,
To strain against this heaviness--
To splutter and wheeze
As the murmuring tide of warmth rolls in
Is to be swept up and drowned
In the undercurrent
Of my own mind.

Thus, I will float, just so,
And the walls,
With their dribbling mouths
Will seep sticky-sweet whispers
Into my hair.