Disinterred and peering out
in very softly differing varieties
of gold from folds of one sweet
gentle flannel dream: three gleams:
three graces: cool triumvirate of ages,
faces: wide-set gazes: little girl –
old woman – full grown lady – each
who she once was, will be, or is –
each a version bright with yellow light
seen through another angle of the prism
of a person: each a scheme to prove
eternity: each witness to the grand
simultaneity of being. One wonders,
though, at some slight anguish in their
eyes: as if about whatever they appear
to want to say they’re seeing. they
look worried. Perhaps it comes
from being, feeling buried.
.
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