There's no one in this fish bowl that speaks my language. I have no chance of escape. Lodged in the fourth circle, I didn't want to be here, with the crass, cannibal cranes. So I claw for hours against the glass. It's unmanageable the observer's breath, that leaves a fog impression against the bustling tank. And I'm frantic, every single night. Like a cursed plane, like a witch in flight. I am lucid in the cage; I wield insubstantial weight. Toss another copper flake on the water's surface. I will clamor for sustenance, or I'll let my body sink into the corner-- the plecostomus that cleanses the worthless space. Still the toxins accumulate. I am wedded to the bottom. On the surface is where I falter. Where the cruel and empty vessels rip apart my hull.