She floats toward the fig tree, clings to imagined land
like the arc of his mouth kisses shadows fast asleep.
If she swallows incubation, waits for perfection
to remove her party dress, embroider new truths
full of pomegranate seeds, silver threads from Hades,
shaped like transfigured siestas, a straightjacket torn
when she swivels on his lap, whitewashes walls, nails
questions reading palms on an open grave, no piece
of earth undisturbed, her hands are full of dirt.