Dust bags in and out
Will not
Let
Me relapse
While the day outside glides by like ticker tape
The night brings violets
Tapestries of eyes
Lights
The soft anonymous
Talkers: 'You all right?'
The starched, inaccessible breast
Dead egg, I lie
Whole
On a whole world I cannot touch
At the white, tight
Drum of my sleeping couch
The contents of an egg that remains whole will necessarily die and shrivel up.
Paralytic