Miss Dust Has a Nervous Breakdown
She crouches down, builds arms for her doll.
The curtains of her house are ash,
her hair is already white, although she’s only 27.
The night is not just something she walks through anymore,
it gets into her mouth.
And when she opens the door,
ducks into her doll place, & flicks the switch,
sticks of sugar scream sirens at her.
The blanket is opening
its wings on the carpet,
“Lie down, Miss Dust,” says the carpet.