To her life, the cracked white sculpted face,
Nude as Cleopatra in a beggared body;
Fed the bad dreams by a priest’s hand,
The flimsy sermon and the bald angel stone.
She lives in an inane world of wind and clouds,
Restive woods with sap leaking from the bark-vents;
At the count of two, darkness and she does
Not know a thing, watches for a cumbrous moon eclipse.
The bronze dead light flickers like a nightmare
Until the sculptress chisels away a look easy as paper,
Her fingers are buried in the dead plaster;
The skin does not have roots. It withers like a dark secret.
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