stringthing

it's come to this
the way that towers push against the ground
to be tall
is a little misunderstanding,
but let me fold a corner on that one
so i can come back to it

if my chest were a ballroom floor,
then there have been steppings and creaks all through
into my chandelier neck;
the air thicked with skirts waving,
pirouettes,
gazes across the room holding on to my ribs.
purple, elegant, glimmering masks
sprawling around pairs of isles
trying to archipelago
trying to ginger through the tectonics
of my organelles,
flooded with the music of several hearts beating.

the music has kept
asking for a hand

the music has kept
a hand on my shoulder
a hand on my hip
a hand in my clasp
a head on my breast
the string of my eyes stretching and stretching 'til i can really see
the yarn in front of me being spun
and the cat getting tangled
on its back
pawing at the towering air