Sunken

The apartment, maybe,
is under water.

Our windows are holding back
this massive purple block, night, the nervous system
of earth.

Somewhere in the
cold depth
there is a glowing
worm
that spells out your name

in his
phosphorescent coils.

His brain
is an enlarged egg
that holds the secret of
man.

We drift along the bottom,
our sonar bonking,
wreckages of
ships
and mustached cadavers
and shoe husks
and trunks full of shit,

bird cages without
birds in them
anymore,

the ghost voices of our neighbors
wishing us luck
in the gloomy halls.

It is the apartment under water.

Dear God,
we don’t know how we
found ourselves here,

amongst these many
victims.