probably french panels,
just to difuse the light,
shatter the dark with bows
and dots. hung long
to travel more.
we pretend we are
in a magazine or ladies’
moths become a problem,
scattering the floor with
deadness, a fragility,
they will be placed in a box
sometime, a suitable
there is a collection now,
the falling days.
some things are inevitable, old tea
sips badly, after all the work is done.
stains the cup if left standing,
remember the hotel, 1964,
we used to scour them especially
round the handle, then the base.
we peeled the tomatoes, and waited
for our boyfriends on the high wall outside.
the whitehall hotel. bournemouth.
in a corner, she hopes
people will see her, talk to her.
do they understand the question,
can they spell her name?
she is not for sale really, though price
writing helps, no one will explain
the bandage, the blood and the book.
some of us love her and have ordered
another measuring stick.
they moved her, you know, from the trolly
to a plinth .not sure whether to be honored,
stayed still with glass, bandages
a message came, choked on tears,
sobbing rose. that one should
mrs ciano received a message.