Because time was so heavy
her fragile lace was crushed.
Because the world held still too long
each moment twisted like a corkscrew,
bored into her heartword like worms.
It just made more sense to dress in heavy denims
and leather.
Smoke or warm wine could grease the seconds
make them slip over each other
in a fervent tumble--wine too bitter
smoke too easy.
Nonetheless, without them minutes lingered
like bad company, crowded the hours and days
with shrill laughter.
Only small deaths could evict them.
Hers or theirs--no choice was easy.
Because now was forever
her days melted into small puddles,
soaked into the earth and she clothed herself
in the granite of young mountains.
Diamonds grew in her ears,
bats nested in the crook of her arms, had babies
and the dark flocks shaded her eyes from the moon.
Now when she sleeps, she dreams, and she dreams
the dreams are real.
The dreams are hard as the rocks
and her lace is the dust of her dreams.