The lady is naked now
she caresses her body
with stiff white hands,
her toes rub against the night,
her lips stretch across the open sky,
no one to receive them.
The lady has no ears to hear
the loves that have eluded her,
the walls of the apartment speak of nothing
except their own morbid perfection,
the lady sits by her tenacity
forever misses the caravan outside of her window,
she knows no one else's story and seldom dreams.
The lady is naked now and weeps
between the abiding folds of her bed linen,
she will be mourned at the cinema,
the clock on the dresser has a cracked face,
the hair brush is pearl-handled and meticulous,
there is no mirror,
one photograph of mother and a box of kleenex,
the air barely stirs inside.