The decision

Her back is want-stalling but she pickswings her way through plural possibilities.  Steps without treading: the morning lemons and dilates.  Her whispering-bed gestates her to the wince of the wish-fountain.  Curtains flower-flounder: forms stumbling into mirror-maps.  It’s what she wants but all her wants still swap and swamp.  One voice plead-pleasures louder than the others.  But they are standing in a ring-a-round shaking their gunfires and goldfish.  Hands are full of know-unknow: the law of alien rudders. Then it’s pitch-night and the envoy bares his answer-sack.  Final and forensic.  The clock buys sighs: its reason-rape.  Her thoughts are gagged: test without trial.  She must breath-bear the wind and take a side stride while the stand-by dice are stinging.  But a number ghost-forgotten screams and scythes a base.  It’s done.  She has station-switched, ignited and arrived.