All the Rorschach dancers

move sideways across the page

and I’m helpless to keep still, as I

shimmy with my demons.

Sequined corn fields serve as the ballroom.

Nothing travels the world, she whispered.

Not birds or ships or whales or butterflies,

though we’re taught to believe otherwise.

Flight only removes us temporarily.

Old women now give birth

and children rule lost islands.

We’re all lost and it’s sort of beautiful.