Words fall into a fitful sleep on her tongue,
Page and binding lay empty and open on her lap,
She pries her mouth open with pliers (and as much grace as she can spare):
This is her modus operandi.
Pinning down words is like pinning down butterflies.
Evasive and free, they are wild beauties, avoiding self-revelation or inspection of every kind.
But on the page, or under the glass, inspection is everything.
Locally committed, they are no longer glamorous, mysterious.
They are contained, prone to be picked apart by onlookers.
Here lies her sacred duty: to give flight to the words, even on the page, even under the looking-glass.