This is the way the woman in
a Picasso painting feels, with her
mobile nose holding two eyes
to one side, her quivering lip
ascending into a pointed chin.
The world is now (and she
can hear its roar) all a blood
dimmed tide, things fall
apart and then together, banged
and whimpering they begin.
All her life, she was up to
her neck in marble, and
the gyres in her head. Just
another woman in pieces,
inventory lost, instructions
too small to read. Broken
the lines of her, a memorially
reconstructed version, awaiting
the detection of each separate
and mysterious error.
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