Limb stacked on limb,
she holds to the dresser for dear life,
a taut contraption -
tips the curve
of her collarbone,
pours her first breath
upon the floor,
to run with its sisters
to the depleted sea.
The line of her lips sits,
dry: final terms, cracked and peeling,
the silent wag of her nose,
crew to two mahogany prophets.
She looks a little crooked
at a bit of wrought iron
nailed over the sky
and hopes
as a few lines of bird
crease the morning window
Coat, keys, coffee -
there's a suspicious waltz
in these floorboards,
a quiet curve to the tune of the manic
cupboards speaking
with mouths full of sugar
Miles on
what they said
competes with
the chafing of her clothes
against her body
above the road.
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