ladder drapes bruised, scarred, and charred, downward, intact. A cord braided four weeks into my making, has sent me warnings I finally heard. the chord, so ominous a strum like how Bobby played guitar until I broke his string before he could break mine. I know my boundary line, my twine, vibrates when plucked, Oh Spine! My Spine! Tucked beneath my skin, double O 7 deep. Without it, how could I stand or walk away?