Fastened in the frame of her gilt dressing mirror, an aging corsage,
a shriveled carnation fragile as paper and gray with dust
bound in tulle and frayed ribbons.
Hand in gloved hand on a garden walk
in moonlight, air redolent with the scent of lilies
A heady, waxy, funereal perfume,
it was all known for the first time.
Filmy stockings and heavy canvas girdle
flung over the back of her dressing table chair,
a hasty and disordered undressing,
somehow there's no longer time to hang the clothing properly.
She glares at her reflection over a green stoneware cup of strong coffee.
She lifts her well-loved tube of coral-orange lipstick to the light,
a profound fallacy against her ruddy, sleepless skin
and worried pallor.
A candle is burning down to the quick.
At night by flickering light she writes
letters to the same people
who have replaced themselves completely in ten years.
"We are all strangers. Pierre, even you."
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