COMPLEX-PARTIAL SEIZURE NINE

Maria sits, listening to my repeated effing.

I have no sense of touch, but inquisitiveness,

and cognisance of space so small it surely

could not be limited by measurement.

Everything is made of odourless smoke.

I turn to watch my right shoulder detach,

vapourise, then morph back into its place.

Perspective explains: an elbow bend reforming

into what it was before experiential foolery.

Abdomen tricks the eyes until they try to track

a movement highlighted by cigarette blue

and shaded by hooker’s green. Entrance to cave,

curling inside out; no beginning or end; only middle.

These are the circumstances as I pace this prison,

constantly checking the time because I immediately

forget. Working hard until Maria leaves.

Then a door frame keeps me from falling as I hunch

to weep because I am desperate with confusion.