Prophetess (II)
Crouching together on the sill
of this window I’ve thrown open,
the last April sunset shows the inherent
shadows of the prophetess’s face.
I wonder why she matters to me.
I wonder if she matters to me,
And I wonder what is in her final eyes
on this city sunset-line.
Both of us, old, cracked souls.
My cracks run grey and hers red.
This is the struggle of the fly who thinks he is a prince.
This is him (me) (not me) (always me) realizing her
web fills his world
and the sunlit ground
is nowhere that matters.
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