she’s smaller than she ever was,
her face is like a globe, or the expanded edition,
soft melon, cold.
her eyes hold all of her now,
the rest is hidden by a robe
that enfolds her like a whole field,
like a deflated willow, turned to soft cloth
cleansing a disc or a wound, i would rather
move further on towards that day
that day will come soon.
even smaller then, she will fit into a glove,
she will turn to soft cloth,
and linger, linger, linger like the moon.