Her vice is words. When she speaks a thousand daggers dribble out aimed at the Statue of Liberty. She preaches of the sensuality of angst, drawing in the blue sky clouds with her breath. She laughs at the wings of fear while pounds of cloth cover the tips that break her back. She wrote her own gospel and says behind the door her flesh glows with the kiss of Zeus. Lovers shuffle their steps off steep cliffs when she arches her limbs. Her breath scars necks with the sting of sweet whiskey. In her dreams she dances with Salinger and Cummings. Their philosophies coat her neck and slide down her spine collecting in a drinking pool at the small of her back. She tries to wash herself clean but her faucet drips Kumanyakaa. She gives into their touch, insisting one day she'll be back by popular demand.