http://5000photographs.blogspot.com/2010/11/photograph-31.html
the woman is perfected
her dead
body wears the smile of accomplishment
the illusion of Greek necessity
flows in the scrolls of her toga
her bare
feet seem to be saying
we have come so far, it is over
each dead child coiled, a white serpent
one at each little
pitcher of milk, now empty
she has folded
them back into her body as petals
of a rose close when the garden
stiffens and odours bleed
from the sweet deep throats of the night flowers
the moon has nothing to be sad about
staring from her hood of bone
she is used to this sort of thing
her blacks crackle and drag
No comments:
Post a Comment