Changing Room

You say that you can’t feel the floor anymore.
You say it’s like trying to walk on a sponge.
The bathroom carpet’s a sea on the moon.
You fumble your way. You’re turning to air.
Or maybe you have no place anymore
for physics and theories, Dettol, Cif,
as gravity, tenderly, eases its hold
on all that you know. The soap. The plug.
The skindust layers. The water. The sink.
Your face in the mirror is vagued by steam.
You rub a small hole to check you’re still there.