I.

There’s beating and trembling
inside the filmy pocket
that I reside.

Muffled voices guide me.
I push,
but never hard enough

Inexplicable fog follows
me as the day wears on;
Everyone averts their eyes.

II.

At night I’ve become
String-happy–
I charm lint and stray strands.

They cling to my
liquid-cloud cocoon
and become my jacket.

III.

Dim light filters
through pockets that lack,
as morning is born again.

Trance-frozen and incomplete
the mist drenches my new
jacket.

It falls around me.
The throbbing returns
with the inevitable shivers.

I wait for night–
Muddled tongues
see me through.

I wait for night–
Eyes avoid as I shake from
inside.

Tonight: I will bewitch myself
a new, dry
jacket.