It’s late and the soul picks her sweet way through the debris:
‘I can’t believe you said that, ate that, smoked that;
of course they don’t like you; why would they?;
 look at the state of you’.
She picks her sweet way between smoldering rafters, 
over burnt out stories.
Through smoke and flame and the charred remains of what has fallen.
I don’t know how she does it,
but even her shoes stay clean.