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she travels in a Vogue bubble
by Carol Shillibeer what little skin is left to her does not hide the cool blue of her bone, knobbed where floating has been forbidden even now, under the gauzy lace her skirt pinks sideways into the unknown, in metallic lust her spindled scarves flirt with tarnished gleam, a treasure-weight of Mardi Gras beads and gold shoes hungry for action her walker clacks its teeth tick an out-of-time clock |
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