She feels the knives raising questioning fingers,
she watches her friends laugh as she sets the house
on fire; it becomes her work in life.
Immortal fruit devours and broods as a snake
crawls into its nest of lower nature,
fragrant, yet uneven, like a carnation or
flaming poinsettias bursting on garden walls;
sorrow sinks her when she listens to music,
thinking of her lover; tomorrow she’ll say
that his body was hers.
That was enough to make her smile,
their extravagance was enough.
Now, autumn pains isolation
when she sees his mirrored image in the marsh,
a brief portrait and the languor of other years,
for her expression’s drowned in a pure line drawing.