Her perfume announces
her passage where eyes
don’t trust visions, and fear
twists imagination into a demon’s blink.
She was dance, April’s first bloom,
youth’s passion for invincible.
October came with skeletons,
and she carried their bones
until the beast’s breastbone
became the final cut.
She is now a ballet of narrow dreams,
the last chance haunting those
stuck in wandering spaces where timid
prefers the vinegar of same to wine
bubbling with temptation to change.
