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Jun 3
In the quiet of her chamber, Olympia,
propped on one elbow, one breast hung
toward the bed; unkempt, untended,
unmade. No fruit, flowers, or servant
bending to her needs, but the noon sun
reaching through the window with shafts
that baste her soft flesh gold. She exhales,
listless as the breeze that moves
the curtains, lifts her tussled hair.
after Manet's Olympia
Written by
Paul  sydney
   Darrell Landstrom and Fawn
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