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On her face he made appropriate markings,
delicate flowers that blossomed and fell.

She, without feeling, lay broken and battered,
Parliament cigarettes littered her bed.
And the table, the sofa, the kitchen door hinges,
the paintings that ringed her, in silent repose.

Come quickly, cry softly, don't seek their attention.
The answers you want aren't the ones they provide,
though they try to accommodate, letting slip secrets,
like dark garnets dropped from the jeweler's black cloth.

He, with blunt purposes, spelled out the angels,
solemnly called them, whispering names.
He waited, he heard them, he felt their wings flutter,
reached for them gently, drew back in dismay
as feathers turned frigid and pinions to nettles
did sting and disturb him and silence his prayers.

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