When Maeve was seven her hair, lifted in circlets of stiffened tow
traced listed lines, circumnavigations of stars and stark
trims of tomorrow morning.

Now, she is sitting with back to blackened window glass as
stretched turns and , smooth , shudder , perhaps not smooth but rather
smoothed as oblivion edges out the harsher edges under its omnipresent
roughness as sickened, you no longer notice the line of spittle dripping
after torrents of

the water metaphors perhaps break down, but it is sure that she was not well.