AN OLD WOMAN
In this midwinter-gloomy
room
where old and wraithlike
gleam
stain
still linger
with cap and collar coat
surviving faintly
faded fabric
and
where fleshy-soft with
pulpy apple-skin
a hand
with withered fingers
rests unresting
on the page
the spongy face hangs blurred
with eyes effaced by paint
precarious on the
slippery ledges
above depths
of paper.
So soft all this
so chill and slimy
viscous – so pulpy
and unsavoury
this
has in your life
in rock-hard muscles
whitewashed bones
never been
seen.
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