Throw a rope for the girl,
Whose heels have already fallen
Into the mass gravity swirl that circulates
Above the coffee table. Her hands
Unable to hold onto the tendrils everyone else
Seems so familiar with.

Don’t save the saucepans, the candles,
The fruit bowl, the coasters, the curtains;
The bookcase has already disintegrated and the drawers are flying
Out the cabinet at a million miles an hour, all of it
Hurling towards the spinning star well.

Anchor your foot underneath the roots you made,
Lean out and reach for her hand,
Before the ceiling caves in and the glassware
Turns to sand.