Pale lips flex her slim ivory face.
I imagine her life translucent,
Travelling calmly by capillary force
Along the sheltered side of potted leaves,
Lit by ambient sun.
How foreign, that sun!
Mine hurts I thrust it
On enemies or I eat it.
It burns me with love for clamorous women
Heroines with vicissitudes,
Who had babies or never had babies,
Ones with scars and ones mid-chapter.
Oh my heart. Viragos who build themselves out of glass
Every morning from the shards they find in their beds.