Travels Through a Disorder
The yellow curtain swings with the wind,
an elongated egg yolk dancing beside me.
I lay on the couch,
my ribs sticking out like fork tines
and my feet cold and wet
with gardening water.
The world is flooded
and I am spread on it like a broken door,
floating bones for wood,
a sail made of skin.
I wind myself up
as the day comes to a close
like a nerve ending pinched flat.
I bury my head in the musk of the pillow
and dream of a supermarket on
a hunger like a boiling pot at my center,
urging me on.