all airports and
hospitals are the same —
the same sounds, smells, expiration
dates, people in need of a good trauma:
crucibles reaching
down and into you.
how to traverse
this open sea,
in front of me
this buoy:
fire-engine red,
shrieking time-piece
in the night-time,
in the instar wake
of dread —
the tomato king
with his tin-can
tobacco ring,
waiting.
my chipped nails grip the
wave; broken coral points.
how to keep from falling back —
back to the bottle, back to the bed,
back to the needle:
in my head, this
nightmare in triplicate,
hybrid voices following me
down a hallway for years.
i haven’t gotten very far;
i haven’t even made it
out of the building.