Closed System

Signal pulse, only numbers in the paint.

Every line a barcode you can taste. Fluorescent halo over every metal bed.

Clipboard eye scanning how you twist your head. Wristband pulse, little radio glow.

Door slide opens like a mouth too slow. Clipboard hand says "stable" on the

page. But the door clicks know your age, your age,

your days. Cameras blink in a lazy slow sweep. Every pixel filing

how you try to sleep. They call it housing, they call it

care. But the air smells wired like a hidden snare. They say ward,