Bupleurum Wandering Chamber

In the chamber of the wanderers, I was fourth in line.
Between the vial and the snow and the boot-print in the snow.
Smart, how they placed me in the double-walled chamber.
Smart, how this wood marks nothing like privacy.

Face in the cradle, I awake from a fallow dream.
Once was butcher paper waxing aqueous rhythm.
Someone sunk a hole where my face should have been.
Meanwhile in the chamber, boot-steps shuffle in.

Young doctor from Guangdong pulls rods from my back.
Shuts them in a red can labeled liberation.
His hands, two valves siphoning my bliss.
Once again, I shall drool empathically supine.

In the wandering of the chamber at the stroke of the sign.