A fantasy, as if on a sailing ship: Making my calculations, sweat soaked wet Lying flat, bunk above, close, hidden The gaps between bent slats dangling weight Pressure applied, visibly registered These modern ships can almost berth themselves Corseted in my sleep, I can’t breathe Stuck in this enormous estate, interred My crinoline scratching against itself Now I am royalty after the feast As my engorged body is stiffening Wealth and privilege become the atmosphere...

Each day a required task remains undone And the mind can’t know what isn’t finished So, the soul continues to feel alone Unable to picture its own wishes The eyes glaze over news from Washington Vacations collect painted shells on sills Getting out of bed demands volition pills I have nothing to make, no gallery Yet I persist in calling myself art Not the maker but the thing itself. Fear Of the unstructured and unopposed—life An interminable...