After the Bath


Butter melts in a baked potato.
A woman dries herself, bent, accumulating
forty shades of skin.

There is no time for prayers.
She rises, blooming at the base.

Plaits her hair, or should I say braids.
Then again, hollowness.

Hiding behind the city's speared
scaffolding, searching, body-bunched.

Starts and stops and starts again,
waiting at each block's black and white crossing.

Three eyes, two lips and a fan of jagged mirrors.

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