then drop down, their sharp edges cutting into
the porcelain scalp. Soon there is a hole
and we all step down into it, descending
the spiral staircase, ducking beneath
the granite chandeliers, making sure not to grip
the sticky banister. On the first landing
we pass the secretary’s desk. She presses the button
-her only allowable action- and all around us
drop thousands of spiders on their glistening lines.
They land on our arms and our hair and we
try to brush them away but soon see that
it’s futile. On the second landing
we step over the arms and legs
of the executives, lying motionless
on the thin carpet. A pair of spectacles
crunches underfoot. Still we spiral down,
the stairs becoming slick beneath our shoes,
the air so cold we can see our breath
in the dim light. At the bottom
was thin sea of sludge, separated into sewers
that stretched out in all directions.
We wandered them for hours,
trying to trace our own wet echoes
to some ladder up to street level.
No luck. Dollskull spiderwebbed
with cracks, our throats parched,
we were there forever.