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An Afternoon in March

A woman I like
is dying of jaundice.
There is no preparing oneself
for her actual colour.
Her room is filled
with a sugary scent,
that of a flower
nature has yet to invent.
Being someone at the centre
of a great deal of stillness,
she says nothing.
She moves her jaw like a mongol
as if she knows me slightly.

When I am dying
I don’t want a circus,
perhaps just some calm
and good-looking stranger.