her loneliness

it’s lonely, i’ll tell it,

it’s lonely there & you’re too sore

to think.

 

II

i’ll describe the crooked lamp

shade later, the tears

of paper, cracks, chipped

dinner plates, years of

slog for,

this?

& that on good days

you figure it doesn’t

much matter

 

in the long run;

the black stain

where a picture

hung, its gilded

frame long

gone now bones

 

crushed.

 

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