ASYLUM

Inside this stale vault are long numbers no one is counting--- It is my breathing.
All is bone and grass grown through it;
the slow, rusted rungs are climbed. Sewers hum like black throats I follow
beneath the gutter's teeth.

I am full of the latched breath
of the air-lock, pilgrims turning
blue with envy, or lack of oxygen,
dim tubers which gnaw their way
toward light.

I am the ribbed cavern that completes
the circuit. I am the vacuum that lets
you know you’re not alone.