Each word's a stone, a paving stone...

Each word's a stone, a paving stone, a flat asylum and like the little girl who trod onward a loaf to save herself in the swamp unless still sank down until she was grasped according to the Marsh King, I grade on the word in the blues a color, and feel myself descending slowly to the labyrinth below, the mind-swamp. down in the mouth wobbles under my feet, the color of my denomination uniform, going deeper now, gloomy the color of the exterior garment the Virgin Mary wore above her white smock on the altar. I'm already waist intricate in blue, the waves slush up around my breasts, small waves, this is the cast down chlorine of the swimming