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,
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.