the bones of her face
mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken
i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten
i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters
this is age and
this is mo(u)rning
and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival
.
.
.
