In Between

I am standing in between rooms, in
between the shallow end and start of doorways. In the
sheet rock, plasters and pink puff insulation pieces.
I am in the center of the atrium
where coughs echo and sweep like thick-winged angels over ashes.
I am in the corner, huddled halfway into the gutter,
partially preening thoughts with my beak, splitting
them into untwisted, uncoiled sheaths of auditory strings.
Where do we settle? Where our
feet are hooked and planted? Squashed out and stiff like mummies?
In the rooms covered in thick, crawling shawls? In the
hidden and the blur? Where
should I plant my lips and waist? Where do my hips fumble?
I am in between the room. In between the still shots. In
between the blur. And in the center of every
atrium, in the center of all the harbors,
in the distinct, placid middle that belongs to all transients.

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