Tomorrow has come for her face, for its pay:
again invisible on the road, her spirit
will wander, where the grass leans back
or tree leaves glint strangely. Maybe only now
her shame and ours—that we have consented to live
can be over. Who knows the betrayal that life is?
Oh, she was the kind that hungered. When the hours
moved
they dragged her wherever the feast was not to be
brave or generous, but craving within herself:
to take. Life is need: you can gesture, yes,
but you have to find out, “What’s for me?” No one
ever survived without asking that question.
But now it is over for her. Freed again
into truth, she is gone. Tomorrow always did
want her. She could feel it when she lay down
to say goodby in the cold; she knew it had come
to claim her. For a while her face fades into the wall
or wherever we look while today lets go.
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