I slip
like sand
from the bottom
of the two ones
and disappear,
expanding in
hollow spaces
below the glass table.

I drift.
the eight
was alive
swirling infinitely
strands charcoal
in the orange
expanse lit
behind my eyes

In reeds they find
a baby without heritage.
women make you
earn affection while
the boys sort through
all sorts to get
the one.

Echoes in underground parking
comforts
the late
thaw blind
angled sun.

I question.
Numbers rush me
one breath at a time,
a minute more of hiding.