I lie
as anyone else does
tended in this celled hothouse
where the walls writhe, out-
of-commission, mourning
the death of my father
in future tense.

In a few moments, I will be soaked in sheets of sewage water.
It will have flooded here.

I must cleave
or I will be flushed through the wallpaper
where time bursts

tritone arrows
on endless
release.