Bath
In an ice bath.
Fingers bubbling, being unveiled.
Everything is like mental illness.
Because they say it so much.
Footprints, grass, and trumpets.
All fastened to my being with paper clips.
Holding gently like fingernails.
A polo shirt makes me wander around.
The TV is dripping like salad dressing.
Beautiful type of window seat.
Where I gradually remembered that I hate things.
Dripping, odd, polished,
The sacrifices.
I don’t know how to emerge from.
The ice bath hours ago.
Fingers bubbling.
No one could live in a pile of ice.
It does melt like radioactive flower petals.
Me.
In an ice bath.
It's like a teleportation device.
It’s too cold for nothing.
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