I am sitting between bunks; the room outside
smells of tangy cleanliness, the kind that sticks
to the walls of your throat; where wheat-white
faces begin to look like the words in your file;
the room inside smells of bleach-scoured hope
and flashlights invoking de-hued irises, where it is
appropriate for a man to sit on your chest
and pronounce you in the form: time of death.