The Entrance

She couldn't let it back in again to
crawl into the dimly lit room of her breastbone
or to kick back the recliner of her auricle.

So it rusted on the limb
of the couch she lay watching it on,
over the walls with their smashups of art
and the books she never got around to reading.

It lanced her finger on the guitar's strings
and mantled the paintbrushes
in their jar of pastel water resting
on top of the tv
               like two great wooden antennas. -- It

became the pins holding up her paper
the paper with the notes to herself
        look at this band
        call this new place
        don't forget to eat live
it let them all--one by one--amble wordlessly
to the carpet where it started to spark and buck into flame.

So she lifted her feet up off the floor,
hoped it wasn't in the nest of her pillow,
and lay lachrymose on her back,
her hand shielding the entrance to her heart.

She watched it creep across the ceiling.