Look
through other eyes
to
see
the
blind ghost dance
with
a young man
she
hugs
his sheathed moist
muscles
to
her dry bones
but
soft skin is served
only
to those who salivate
deaf
to laughter when she is the punch line
torn
lace and broken cobwebs catch nothing
years
have screwed her
burnt
fingers grasp the dead red rose
—the
plate of sweetmeats is empty
