takes a full

month

to finish her fan

dance

fourteen days to unfold

its pleats

into a white round disc

fourteen more days

to hide it away again

don't be fooled

by her coyness

for she is

the Queen of Blades

and her crescent knives

flash out in the soft

light

to carve away

entire coastlines.

she is poison

to the men

who pull off their helmets

and fall to their knees

to kiss her

powdered

face on the far

side of that mask.

A telegraph wire

runs through your skull,

a steel cogweb

made of moving-picture

memories and

phonographic conversations

with mechanical

talking

dolls

and other Edisonian

contraptions.

The hum of pneumatics

(the tickerchatter

of teeth)

dimly heard in the attic

where are stockpiled

careful hordes of lightbulbs,

some dusty,

or cracked,

some blacked,

others freshly acquired

and gleaming.

It is a crime to die

with money to your name

but a sin to die

with thoughts in your head

unspoken.