Hair surrounds my face like a curtain.
Pulley discarded somewhere offside
—cracked and rusted—
so the chiffon can no longer rise.
I’m going off script so be prepared
for many encores of my selection.
I can feel the rustling, an impertinent
chaos prodding bone revving to spook.
Veins running with a banner
alerting others to my contagious peril.
It’s true, I’m on the stage you set…
but I’m only here to run wild.