belle, your skin wanders
for that's why the red yarn runs
not by your own hands
but by the gravel of its bare feet

belle, your head floats
pulled astray by arachnids
you know not why the web lines
your fingers— only that it does

belle, your neck aches
with the burden of a black cat
the wounds belong to him, not you
not you not you not you

belle, your eyes linger
seven lukewarm minutes
and a misaligned tussock boot
feed your grave

belle, your feet sway
catching baby's breath
from a newborn curtain
close

belle—