She of collapsible shoulders sat, dizzy and rough and left alone in the rain, content to daydream of waking up without a headache and then staying awake in sweet suspension.
How provocative it would be to empty her pockets, run barefoot among lavender, and not be sure of anything,
to be a real life human girl, romantic,
getting down and around in cellars.
Maybe to dance in enough places at the wrong moment would be to begin to understand what it is to belong,
but what has ever been enough.
Starving sage, wished to be old enough to come home to someone, then continued imagining lost things.
How vintage to be youthful and lousy.
How miserable to be rich and old and ninety, having only lived between armchairs.
She thought about the architecture in Palo Alto, who to write first, and tennis, then set back to close the windows, to be cold and dry.
PLUTO BLOOMING 