Alison Swety



I sweep knit sleeves over the desk
the way that trains of dresses twirl
along a wooden dance floor thick
with dust except for trails of slick,
silk-polished roads in touching rings.

These figure eights I painted, too,
with rollerblades on patios—
the boundless marks can soothe a girl,
merry-go-rounds, like twisting curls,
a bow tie perfect comfort there—

until I shuffled through the grass
and sent my body down a hill
toward stiff and pebble-scattered rows
that hid themselves then grabbed my clothes
and bruised both spinning wheels and arms.