Failing to fall
real, reeling like
sardines in cottonwood
arrows tipped with blood
of angels and monotony
in level
stares along long tunnels
light streaming from
ceiling crevices hallway
flanked with white,
silent, with uneasy
stone,
sitting alone
thinking of her
anger welling
the coldness of the wall
dead, hearing her voice
inside, wishing it
would fall silent,
seeing again
only the walls,
and no more the
visions of her.