He had an itch that needed scratching     he told
me     after this long incarceration     even though
he reminded me     all of the walls were 
transparently open     even though the doors
had been locked for as long as we can 
remember    the keys all rusty and immobile
and yet here we remain     always on the same
unchosen side     always drunk to the point
of falling     drowning month by month as we 
count down the days to our release    count down
the days until we snap the brittle hanks of metal
from the walls     drag the sharpened edges
across the glass     our pulse pounding     our
sweat dripping     our memories a fragmented 
network of tracery     as a picture emerges from
the uncontrollable hand     from the waking
dream     etched into unforgettable memory.