There was a soft glow from another room
Lighting the hair on her calves like cobwebs
Or the fresh delicate silk of spiders,
And I think them mad, the other women,
(Modern as the make-up on their bathroom floors)
For drawing steel upon their wintry legs
As if exposure made them beautiful-
Trees without bark holding succulent fruit,
Fish cold like ghosts swimming bare of their scales.
Some times, my love does imitate those girls.
She shaves, she scrapes, her flesh is a mirror.
Upon that sheen I see the face of death,
But she sharply grins when my eyes are upon her.
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