• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 11
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Clay and empty space

I'm sitting at the bottom of the ocean,
playing a harp in poison berry orange
with the strings all fused together
so it makes no sound. I'm breathing

through an army surplus gas mask
and tank, down to my last few gulps
of oxygen. I'm balanced on a gold
embellished plinth. If you twist it

the right way a melody comes out
and I slowly spin around. I'm made
of clay and empty space, so delicate.
The smallest touch is all it takes.