Punch-drunk soubrette, a moll, a carnival, cracked-up muse staggering happily, ripping into bodice or gabardine, feather-tempting on skin, not keen on maudlin. Or harmless, squishing inside the honeycomb of young, cupped hands: popping, floating, flitting from ear to question-mark shaped ear. Residue is both invisible and a monkey on the back. Eventually seeing its reflection: a cockatrice. Transmutes to wild with fret. Now the hour to rumba off stage, scramble, fold flat into origami sampan or fan, ship or other shape. Sharp, pointed arrow tips flip angle over angle, falling stiff into the body’s hourglass until dressed up in time, nothing or faded-blue flowers emerge.