121/365: The Flood and Ebb

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I note the angles,
square my hips with the gridwork,
and line up my feet
to hold steady against the walls' slow pulse,
as though they are pulled by an inaudibly low boom
in rhythm with my chest's own pull.
There is only me in this white room,
and then only this white room,
and then only white white white,
a clean border for containment,
bright and measured against the ticking of my watch,
my thrumming arteries,
until the pressure drags out a slow reverse,
that frees my edges,
spreads them out loose as breath,
until I can fathom the door
and its turning handle
and the other side.


I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.