On Compartments

Often I imagine I'm swallowing the world;
lately I've felt the world swallowing me.

It's not an enveloping, which suggests I'm somehow losing ground, lacking footing.
No, it's not a sinking into the sand.

The redness of my newly outside skin attracts other redness-es in the world.
Constant triangles meeting other triangles; silks meeting other silks.

Boxes in which I fit, mirrors in which I half-hide.

It's more like suddenly being able to speak a lot of languages.
As if language was contagious!

But not a speaking in tongues, which suggests an accidental path within disorder.
This is a language that carries equipment,

and it is Pleasurable:

Pleasure

Able