Seeing Francesca

I see fear when I look through the eyes of the other.

I see halted possibility in her breasts

and warm mystery between her thighs.

What is she hiding there between her legs?

What is she hiding between her palms?

The space between her breasts?

Staring at the floor,

sitting alone in the corner,

creeping through the floorboards and staining the snow.

If you take one step, the prints will give you a way.

If you fall gently back, nothing will break your decent.

Through paper, flour, dust and glass,

the curl hovers gently above you.

Best to stay here.

Best to just fear.

And see it painted on the floor before you.

She, the body outlined in the lens.

Suspended in time.

Looking back to cry aloud.



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