[Gare Montparnasse by de Chirico[
But Hell Blamed Closer When She Did That
Saying this, she came near and o
in such simple touchings of free and bequeathed
breathed into the other.
Mangled blame wrapped in silk order and wish color–
orange, fuschia, mauve–rose in a fan out the neck,
tapered to pheasant feathers long above.
Fingers nipped clacks of gold leaf, filly-free.
Sailing sinews whaled the breast.
Hip lapped hills rounded.
And the woman.
And the woman. Failing to clothes.