Basement

.

A staircase falls through a sternum.
The wallpaper peels at the smell. 
Wind rows down.
A hand arrives at the destination 
Four. The room is practicing being a room. 
Three. The oar is practicing being an oar. 
Two. The water vibrates in the shape of elongated breath.

A corridor of mirrors whispering catch 
but the clocks are already inside the catching 
and the corridor has been wheezing curtains 
through a wall that is also the inside of the word below. 
The table is set in a kitchen 
where someone has left the light on 
Blindness becomes clear. 
The light has been waiting 
for the breath that has been before you had knees.

I sat in a chair 
that was made of my own breathing 
unwinding into soil 
dissolving on my tongue.

The ceiling opened. 
The house tilts. 
Upfall.

The spine is a building with too many doors. 
Every door is basement is a basement 
beneath the basement and there, 
at the bottom of the long dark, 
in a room with no walls, 
on a floor made of everything
a stone turns over in a riverbed. 

The riverbed is someone’s pocket.

The floor here is made of every water.
A coin falls. 
Ribs open through the mirrors, 
and through light, 
my hands touch the forge.

The walls remember being mountains.