As I walked down the pink fleshy corridor 
     I was oppressed by a weightiness --
An opposition to my progress --
A refusal of things to focus.  
Was this a dream, or the hall, or some strange
     hybrid fused within the space between 
     sleeping and waking?  
My father woke me as I urinated in the corner 
     of the bathroom. What are you doing?" 
     he asked.  
What could I say?  
I was being born, I think.  
I was trying to wake from the other world. 
Today I awoke. 
A honey bee weaved in and out of the 
     bars at the window.
Idly I pictured myself following her to
     the flowers, the open
     fields and the hive.  
What then?  
Could I steal a little of the honey?
I sat up.
"Ah." I said.  
"A prison."
"Ah!"