You've read The

Particulate Dreams...?

Passengers!

When you enter here

you cease to exist.

We may not return

any of our books.

There's a solvent softening

the spines.

There's a barbed wire tangle

hanging from one parrot-ear to its pirate-ear,

filtering endoplasmic machinery,

catching krill

and vacationing submarines.

Wade until you're an archipelago,

you stench.

You've lost your dose.

A helicopter rattles your eyelids.

You're awake.

Our hotel soaks five suicidal concepts in

fluorescent breakfast marker,

you toast its sheets and carpets,

reglowing like

Augustus Caesar.

There is no heat.

You are slipping behind the temperate

world's shadow, and temperature in mercury

follows you like a calf.

There.

Is it the gate:

You walk into marble,

pausing through another end, a

windowed terminal of many, to swirl with a finger—

evaporating, leaving us the tornado.