She tries to lean her face against
a silky velvet chiffon scarf
but it is taken by the wind, although
there is no breeze no more
for this face, this flame. For this face
needs no breeze no more,
nor chewed almond kisses.
With bleeding hands she scrawls
hymns on the black board whilst
the cross stands silent witness.
She writes: When I return as a man
you might mistake me for a woman,
then sings that song before
wooden empty benches.
And the silence then, the silence
is so lonesome, longing
in all nights for a fragrance.
And the fragrance is the closest then,
so closed and silent.