A room in your head that's not a room at all
although you can enter it. The scuffed grey metal
the doors are made from, the numbers
waiting to be pressed, all leading down

to a lowest level you haven't reached yet
however low you seem to get. You know
the plunging feeling and the world squeezed flat
to a dizzy blur of light between the doors

and speeding walls. Why do you even
keep coming back here? It's open so you do,
to spend an hour, a day, or week just falling
deeper and deeper, then back again. You know

there must be other numbers, leading up, although
it never seems to work that way for you.