The walls of the third cubicle are familiar
with my desperate hands tracing the pattern,
graffiti and tears, rewiring historical veins,
hands smoothing a bruised apple.

History is the dull ache of lost faces,
steam-rollered, or ploughed flat, into soil,
bruised apple collected at harvest, bobbing,
with worms, sails jaggedly past
the lines I drew on this map
My hands are the lighthouses,
turning back ships decorated in krill,
pristine like time injected into the stars,
my veins bristle and glisten in fluorescent light,
tacky like souvenir shop foundation from blood.
My arms are full of this soil, echoing.

This cycle spins my ears until they shake with tinnitus,
I draw lines of guilt in the wind,
mapping silence of the first dimension,
flat to us, but drawing erratic breaths in souvenirs.