Ophelia

She says a dawn novena, and worries about her feet, dancing who will see her, love is a trapeze door, unknowing what secrets to keep, it glides the floor, every tune floats bigger, the dust shuffles her conceit, wood yards and blonde singers, rise along the shore, but when dawn turns green she prays alone, wondering if heaven’s trigger, will replace a depth of need, no bet is ever even, perhaps with a communion order, even a retreat, she’ll know the score, stuff to make her dream.