In my tummy,
lost in the coils,
something sticks
but doesn't spoil.
It just sits.
A piece of glass,
some trapped gas,
something that cannot pass.
I spin and spin,
again and again.
I hide.
I linger.
I wait.
I'm warm.
I'm safe.
The blanket surrounds—
my own little cloud—
if I stay right here,
I can't be found.
Wrap around me.
I sleep.