The stairs collapsed beneath her
and as she fell, she prayed for her body
not to be seen, not painted by a brush,
she saw the sun, then the moon,
nighttime descended as splinters of wood
flew into her eyes, poured out of her mouth,
sinking past an assortment of floating objects—
a banjo is her head, her torso is a Picasso painting,
her legs are brooms, sweeping the air, her arms
are cut-up cloth.
Curious eyes peek over the crumbling banister,
which a disembodied yet still whole hand holds on to,
but soon the skin peels away, leaving only bone,
which also disappears—everything is still and dark,
alone and quiet, somewhere the nude is still falling.