b-prison-smallAs 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."