a complicated edifice, practically a contraption,
Rube Goldberg-esque without the flimsiness,
and, above all, authorized.
Some alloy within the walls deranged my compass
and the lighting blew all the highlights out of my map.
I was reeling, possibly reeled in, likely unreal.
It was last-reel stuff, sectarian but with violins.
I had dodged the guts that dribbled from the highest branches
and no small mammals had yet clogged my bootsoles
but the flesh imperative was ringing in my ringing ears
and even that did not scare me
until I realized that I was unwanted,
dead or alive.
Derision disguised as weeping
rocketed past my scandal
and whether I found my way in or out or not I was doomed
to be the perpetual anti-heroine
log-riding toward then away from yet another sawmill --
half something, half something else, and all nothing.
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