Her eyes are two hard pebbles
sickly threads clinging to a smile that
has seen too many
times like these.
Let that infectious blister of humanity
flash its resentment, then
resume blankness and complacency
before the disease spreads oily tendrils
into our own hearts
and we are forced to understand
why she wears a mask by day.
Like a clock with the hands snapped off
or an oil portrait, scratched out
what was fundamental is missing from
The sun still shines, and the world slogs on as before
forever only slightly earlier than usual.
The years, tarnished masterpieces
coveted by so many