All foreground is background,
a violence of tender voices.
The children have adapted. They swirl,
a mobius strip of arms outstretched
catching lashes as they fall, their pockets full.
We shield our eyes pretending there is still
separation and sky. In a dark room, a man
continues to brush layers from his coat sleeves:
they smear like confection, palms shimmering,
diffracted gray with the scales of moth wings.
Down the hall, a woman weeps over a mound
of nail trimmings: she remembers only spiders
eating their mother, her blushing abdomen,
an orange web quivering in the sky.
In the last room there is an open window, a light
that fails to pin our spiraling bodies to the floor.