she is leaning out the window, considering—
the view. she cannot hang
here forever,
she will either step away and keep
the sky a separate god
or she will lean into
the inevitable, her fingers
splitting in the air
her head smashing
into damp pieces.
her skull is
a throbbing lump
hanging on a broken
window, his face
is reflected
in the glass
cut into the brain
cut into his windshield. he is not
looking, he is making love
to air.
even now—she is
invisible, a desperate bitch
with her father’s hands
shoved up into her
thighs,
her body crying
on the way down—
thinking it is not
even good enough
to waste the air,
the time, the
space to
fall.
the last pavilion 