through the crack in the door
the moor, its wild wind, some
grassy tugboat, moats, the holes wind up
these ladies vanish in any case, such wealthy skirts,
flyaway tendrils, the gloves and jewels we gathered on the stoop.
V. taps her nails on the balcony, or the noise I admire.
sometimes music in another wing, that flight, and solitude.
spinning, if they’ve fainted, it’s a difficult find,
Vera takes one under her arm, drops a precious vase,
giggles with her lady friend.
in another story, lady slamming doors and outside the dry weather
starts small fires on the porch.
V. naughty, the room is very cold, but a consuming breeze, and our lady
per usual, a heap on the floor.