fissured by design or accident, cleanly
broken down the spine. Something

resembling sorry sews it tight.

Orchestra I call it—hope it so—

nth chair,

Zeppo to the other Marxs.

Elan carries me through the bride,

allowing for a march’s turbulence.

Notice also this influx of the marital

domestica, the trappings of huswifery
blinging from my skirts. No accident

lines my pockets or stitched them shut.

Allowing for the universe, I designed

zillions of these accidents to litter
each path I might take, tripping forward.