found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,

 

printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter

 

but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,

 

thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.

 

you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.