with me today. All the gold
has turned grey. Marshmallow fluff
of woven shawls has rolled down
lanes like bowling *****. The wind is

whipping me like eggs, in peaks of
white that stands on stage. My eyes are
clouds dripping sweet dew down ruddy
hills I powdered with rouge. The fog

outside is like my bathroom mirror. But I
cannot wipe it off with the cotton
washcloth. And the pelting of the rain
on my windowpane rings through

my ears like a screaming baby's
tears. One, with colic that cannot be
soothed. Like my life, a wrinkled dress
I iron out but cannot be smoothed.