If you expect lace to be a
                    delicate mess you
           would not see what you’d
  expect as it could have been a web
             of threads woven by hand or a
                    thousand machine heads or a
           criss-crossing line along and across the
                                                 spine of a foot or the
                                       wings of a fly from a fictional
                                                       ­       book or the flick of
                                                      a wrist turning your drink
                                                           ­    into a risk you gladly
                                                          ­                      sip and fall
                                           into a dream filled with dance
                                                          a­nd lights and a
                               chance at a fanciful flight
                      but
                                ­        then comes the night
                                             and you hold your seams
                                                           ­ together even as you
                                       slip it off your shoulders no more
                                              delicacy only rubble and ruin
                                                            ­ remain as it floats
                                                      to the floor and you
                                                        stumb­le and fall
                                                          in­to the cruel
                                               hand of slumber
                           feather softness no more
                            than a web of threads  
                    and linen criss-crossing
                         over your spine and
                                     you dream
                                       of flying