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.
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