God willing, I beg, Lord Almighty,
That I am going somewhere.
Somewhere where though I am sitting in crowds of people,
Separate languages, separate everything.

It's my fault.
In it all, I can recall,
It's my fault,
The fruit I have born from the trees I have nurtured.

I am furniture.
Sitting here, moving there,
Placed inside a chair
Feeling electricity as though plugged in.