She tried to fix her fingers last night.
She attempted to wake between the pawns.
What kind of square she would fight,
Black or white, she couldn't tell.
It was suddenness and flash that instilled
In her the feeling that the squares were actually
Rectangular keys: Arranged
As a starfish's beams are shot.
Intending to square this circle now
She bowed downwards and played -
Struck both sides - 'till she took notice
Of the advantages of being in the centre.
On her way there peculiar fatherly images
Double-crossed her path intending to recircle
Each of the strings a beholder might have
Mistaken as broken.
The lines kept ensnaring her labouring hands.
The black and white was blurred to a
Pasty/tasty grey soup that filled
Her mouth, nose, ears, eyes, arse and belly button...
