I fell asleep in a centrifuge;
My dreams have been spinning ever since.
I woke up suctioned to the sides
Of something–
By some nonspecific force–
And I cannot decide
Whether or not it even exists,
Or if I’m just motion sick–

In lieu of the break I’ll never catch,
I catch my breath in glances elsewhere
As I feign distraction from eyes that knock
The wind from my lungs;
I am breathless;
I am standing still.

And so the spins feel so thrilling because
I have become so institutionalized.
The hands of time
Are now so synchronized
With mine;
That if I could speak
In numerical fragments,
Then my breaths, too,
Would tick and tock.