Alone
cast in a light of dried ivory and snow
the softest most invisible hand and the dark hair of night
nothing-less, nothing more
alongside a brown-wooden chair, oak Varietal
stone-inlay, French and floral, kiwi and hummingbird
iron-side clasping, hugging the chair together
within a room of gold-paint, a soft gold leaf
round cornered wainscot, the thunder and echo for Carthage
in every picturesque Baroque something other of the whitewash, flush
outside a barren snow, in a snowstorm
a single snow trapped stove,
a solitude of grass poking through
she is looking outside And crying
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