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It’s snow white like the noise of gaslight A wisp feather voice of nineteen-nineteen
She sings sweet to the swoons of her princes Who flip coins.
With fleet feet she plucks them
Like seeds a sparrow-thin wrist twists the trinkets Between her teeth and spits
Green copper.
Seeps a silver sixpence through to my shelf of knick-knacks One hundred hundred hundred fingered
To a moon-blank face of her that was the fairest of all.
February 19, 2015