Wrist bones protrude from your freckled skin,

Knocking and clattering

Against the floor where you fell

From the top of the stairs.

Balance has failed you,

Gravity prevailed,

And your cheek presses against

The head of a nail not quite hammered

All the way into the boards of the floor.

And you can see the light hanging from the ceiling

Muted by the dust motes that float on the air

Like a grey shawl on the wind,

The hall cloaked in cobwebbed cape.

The stair-steps creak even when no feet stand

On their heads, mournful voices in the empty winter afternoon,

Like a funeral dirge winding

Through the drafty house.

Your fingers brush across the floor

And touch your face, feeling the purple feeling of a bruise

Just forming, and your nerves are sending telegrams

To your brain to tell you

Your ankle is twisted, but probably not broken.

Otherwise, you’re just fine.

A tremendous fall was all it took

To rediscover the wonder of cobwebs.