dawn lonsinger
Dull Room


My arm is full of veins (plumb), the ceiling syringe
of frozen milky light descends an altogether anesthesia,
the small imperceptible
            fish of voting.

The walls, once designed (tranquil code), are eaten
through with organisms. Even sound ripples
            this building's slip (slip).

Though I am told that Scaffolding (hush-hush) is everywhere
cemented as if gravity fillets matter, the brain buried
in the body like silt, shallow (fingerless) grave.

The disarticulated remains rotate
in their disarticulated atria, human bones

and dragon bones and plaster all barely audible
            in the Spectacle of Sockets.

I’d say look into the sediment with affection, but
the ground is not the ground but a stage before and after
                        an emptiness is carpeted.

I can see nothing
under or beyond it, only what clings—lint dead skin
            to its Yielding Lure (static love).

Small teeth, suspended things,
the pattern on
                        our plates shift.

Empty chairs face the direction of
their abandonment—other shells which congregate together, found
all together dead; and the solitary shells are found

apart from one another—mark the territory
of the ongoing, the insistent eventual delivery, plush
knock, then promenade.