Black, cold, narrow
as a grave,
I didn't see the hole—
didn't look before I stepped
down.
Long,long I fell

past shards
empty as plastic
champagne glasses,
past deflated balloons
pink and yellow,
past a magician's
empty black hat
dead rabbit,
          curiouser
               and curiouser.
Past the touch of your lips
brushing my neck—
a silver moth in flames,
onto barren lunar landscape
I stopped.

And Alice,
it's true what they say
          it's not the fall
               that kills you.