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She is the colors of both life and death.
She leaves beautiful stains on the air.
Coming on the whole world,
from a small booth adjacent to the world.
And it is a pinprick.
And she is a star lit by extremes
of resistance, unwavering
in the telescoped airless.  Newly lipped
and ready with ducts of extracting vengeance,
she has her way.  And shrugs about it
while the waxworks expresses its melting disapproval
all around us.  Stunned by her peril, in
twos and threes we lie down to please her
in robes that do not hide our faces,
with an advantage, with a horde of ready blood,
ready to murder at a twitch
for a lunch hour of pornography
to lie down in her torso
where love is punished into love
and the dream transcribed on her
hides in a falling subway
where her hair is a salad of light
in the perishing door her walk her way
her nameless odor with a name.