Self-Portrait with Her Hair on Fire
Now, it is as dark as the pathos of pushing a wheel-
Chair through the museum of a great metropolis.
I cannot tell you this, not now, not ever, even
In the letter I have written that is so epic
That if you were to open it, the pages would sail out
In the wind like confection moths being born
In the thousands out of their sacks, blowing
Away, page by page, in a wind the color of her hair
Across a medieval pillow endlessly scorched,
The singe of something living tinged with fire.
I will go on loving as I love the backs
Of things and the invisible,
As I love the hideous or an attention
So attentive it is next to worshipping.
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