Verbatim

She moves in silent parables,
in finely crafted images
of woven gesture and
small tokens of dispassion.
I watch ash-grey dawn slivers
touch her, turn her skin to bone,
her eyes to desperate ice.
As a new day grows in the
corners of this empty sky,
small rust coloured roses are
slowly dying near the window.
Inevitable rain falls and.
a clock ticks relentlessly.
There is almost nothing left to say.