Sovereign Skins

Damp sheets spoil the song. As the poems tumble from the walls. Bent needles. Breaking off in her arms. The long gloves she wears. To conceal. The entrances.

She remembers the numbers. Though everything is lost. She constantly counts the eggs. Though her basket is full of holes.

When she admits. Is not if, but how. We continue tumbling as we are. Through this angular playground. Trying on the left over limbs of the all the mannequins that came before us.

Posed faces and plastic thighs tempt the paradigm to shift. Unfortunately there is still more. Even if we don't have it.

I grabbed the spider from its web. And asked it. How many flies have you caught.

Not nearly enough.