The Wheel of the World

She is drunk on soft staircases. They reach with splintered fingers towards her.

She is a coat rack. The trench is her sandy curls and the windbreaker is her unwavering torso.

She is the radio station that leaks perfume.

She is a starry hairnet that holds light.

She is a bruised automobile at sixteen.

She is a lacerated plane ticket to the Berlin Wall. West or east, you ask?

She is the ending of every story.

She is storming ornaments up the mountainside.

She whistles lemon juice in your face.

She smokes a dainty poker chip. It idly watches as smoke curls up the staircase.

She is a prophetic sweater vest stitched with a chained cross. The windbreaker is stitched with the same thread.

She is a nose pressed up against glass.

She straightens the rivers and blooms the skyscrapers.

She carves starfish into tea bags.

She is spider’s passion.

She is a Christmas wreath, noosed around the poker chip.

She screams the spider’s name on the radio.

            She cannot hear perfume from the Berlin Wall.

                        She whips the windbreaker into a story every time.
                                     You see her face through muddy water.