This is the color of churchyards and lace,
Feathers crushed on the roadside
Of women with pearls strung about their necks
Toying with thick white-rimmed rings
Under jet-handled umbrellas.
They are reading inscriptions.
I can still hear the bells of morning tolling
The moment when last night became today,
That inseparable moment that I cried for
When I slept,
And behind my heels some razor
is shearing back layers of gray
As ashy gossamer shrouds my face
And teases the path beside my feet
Where white lilies blossom
Like a wound filled with snow.