From the Window.
This lady who wintered poorly, had thin hair,
and sat in the sun, under the cascades of forsythia,
with a towel and a mirror, in black sateen pajamas.
I do not think, in all of Hade, there
are such desperate shades as thin-haired ladies.
The mirror flashed.
I winked.
Under the forsythia flowers, her stare into the cruel glass
fished up a mole, horrors, and two wild hairs
she plucked.
And then she snipped her fingertips.
One smelled the steam from molded snows.
And in the pool of sunny heat, the wind
lashed the gold forsythia and the sun sucked.