Dusty black teeth:
she's been sleeping in soot;
it didn't take long
for the ashes to cling to her smile.
She sleeps here nearly nightly now,
the lonely broken chimney,
save for when the stars and the starlings
migrate from the otherwise darkless sky.

Mademoiselle leaves her brick tower
every day
to play with seashells and honeybees
or fight or dance with swallows and eggs;
every day she leaves, and every evening
she finds the sleeping embers
of a new fire, and

mademoiselle has begun to wonder
who ignites this solitary hearth, and
whether she might also be lit.