When the surface below
her feet can no longer be

trusted and she can no longer hold
in that scream, sweat and fever break

before unsuspecting eyes. What happens
to old souls at middle

age? She lost hers

in the bottom of a bottle
of Rioja, a fermenting worm hoarding

all visionary movement in its ringed
pulse, only recovered

it in the past decade. Is it preserved
or a witness

to exquisite decay? Relax,
roll with it, let your timbre

do its catch and release. But, no,
she can’t. She’s not ready to expose that worm

to its reflection in the glass

floor. She still believes
a ceiling would be a better prop.