An incubator of (floating).

Heat, acidic and meek, leaks

from strange bodies,
warming the walls -
fermenting, budding,
sticking to my skin like clingfilm.

Everything moves in parts,
ticking over,
one by one,
agonisingly,
like a Wheel of Fortune.

My eyes have tides of their own.
My bones are soaked in something sour.
My skin, a stretched-out Sahara.
And I carry this exposure with me
everywhere I go.

I listen (acutely) to this internal symphony.
These heavy tides of blood are boundless,
crashing like an off-key orchestra,
playing chords in time with the
slow-moving magma beneath my feet.