A hand, it’s mine, pulled down my gullet,
Fingers creeping so. They stroke the walls of my
Organs slow. Sifting podging, pull on.
I’m searching: going digging through the pieces,
A medical text at my side. But
What I seek cannot be found between the blood
And oxygen. Although I should be
Here, I think. We are as we make, we be, we—
Fast, too fast—
Where am I? Can I be found?
A panic mottled, stodged the sound
Am I here at all?
Echoes, ring from an answering call.