She is transparent in striving to drape a veil of shadows around her bareness. Stanced awry for the canvas. A brush strokes to elucidate specifics, turned at the wrist, and aims to paint her motherless lyric.
She is humored by façade of will. Says with her own tongue, “I am an unseen dream of the abstractionist. When I ask alms on the streets of the waking, you are the blind one.”
The night cultivates incessant plumes sprawled out on a row of yellow chairs. She exists there, not as compartments nor carousels, but the joie de vivre soft-cradling her naked-skin.
The morning ushers in high-heels, ringed fingers, and intrigue at the fatness of a bird. With bent elbows, she hauls a barrel of rattling bones and switch-blades intended to efface the distinctions of this monstrous anonymity.