trance

In gloves made of shadow,
I would slink,
undiscerned,
through the gauze, enter
the sultry, lemon-swept
death-scent
of her deranged imagination.

I would brush
each eggplant-violet lip.
I would peel
her from
her viscous nightmares –

where sad sequences seep
graceful and paralytic

from the cracks
in her hands
made by the day.

The blueblack
light
strains against
her brow, even now.

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