Tweeting The Midnight Line Poem by Sarah Vap

A seer, enduring
the watcher's flowing face: be grateful, be grateful.
Ear
where the sheet of marble buckles.

She taught herself what is to come—
origami animals
on a boat. Those people working,
nauseated. Nobody
should experience anything they don't need to.
Her feelers

take the pulse of the house: matted fur
in the elbow of a couch,
the tipped branch made into the house.
Her metallic eyelashing, and certain sounds—

the satellites.
The quiet they make for each other.
Crouching wood, washed-up necks
held straight by something without being
the equestrian statues.