A Convex Hull

Inward I go mute

teething a thought that gestates
and passes with the gravity
of a kidney stone, under inversions
of trilobite battle formations
lit by the capillary effulgence
spreading from the single lamp
that depends from the ceiling.
The walls bicker and vie
in race of palettes.
In the morning
my landlord will finish painting
and fully translate the room
but now with all the furniture
tucked in a corner my echoes
triangulate and return amputated,
toppling on a dry hypotenuse.
The room contracts to bound
the irreducible space of self:
finite, cutaneous and lacking
in positive pressure it spills forth,
scalar like fever escaping a clean room,

then I have a voice again.