She will answer her own question
with another question wrapped
inside a brilliantly clean
pattern of reds, blacks, gold— 

a pattern bleeding into another,
into another without end. “Will I
make it to the roadhouse
without dying tonight?” Spotting 

an unraveling of the veil
of delusion, she picks beautiful silk
threads off the floor
where in desperation she knelt 

to ask for help. Another weave in deep
ocean blue overlays the red,
the black, the gold. Indefinite articles
worn loosely over shoulders 

could warm Caryatid to release
her boulder, to recover
her posture without a pose.
And so she does make it
to the roadhouse tonight 

for a cup of hot black
light roast breathing
free—divine for now.