eaten by her own stride, city blocks

half-lit as country lanes, her gloomy

covenant with diurnal & nocturnal

coup de grace.

a notch taller than short, stick-thin,

dragging around a hag's last birthday--

face bald as an egg.

tattered habit--cowl over her head...whose

black cloth drapes down as if producing

antiquated photographs of oblivion.

a strong wind gust rips back her cowl--

loosing petals from the cherry blossom

wreath she wears, as it rests crookedly.