Then there are all the things
she does to remember
to paint her toenails
a shade of dried blood.

Then there’s how she looks
for her perfect accessory
dwelling unit in all the wrong places
the way she used to look for love.

Then there are all the parallel
constructions she creates—
they won’t satisfy
a lyric soul.

No one’s going to rescue her
from tumbling into a pitfall
covered with a thick layer
of lyric soul grit and grime.

Then again every word she wants to use
has become the name of a video game,
or brooding post-punk revivalist band,
or nail polish.