In the tent of powder and lace
Vultures pick at a carcass that feeds by hand,
Longing to decay
Waits to hear the sound
Of their wings slowly heave as they fly away,
Some will stay for days
There’s maps in her wrists and arms,
And the dust lies like snow around the bed
Glowing white, a sculpture of bone,
Or a jewel like a crumpled, distorted moon
Shivers in her mind,
If she moves too near
It shatters so quickly, leaves nothing behind,
The old lady sighs
Sometimes when she lifts her eyes
The room has filled with flowing sheets of silk,
There’s maps in her wrists and arms,
And the morphine surges terror bread and bliss
In the tent of powder and lace
She can hear some violins, watches the strings
Threading through the room