Wednesday, April 18, 2012


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

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