Midnight coils its patience to wait
As she unpacks her wrinkled breath
And with an effort sounds sincere
And I hear
This former rag-doll's former wish
And I think
Her skin is wet but will not tear
The wicked stitch from what it seems
This slumping doll does not suspect
She's doubled over
Undedicated books.
Hand on her stomach, hand on her face
Hands on her head urge her down down down
Red hair spills wet over sharply edged pages
    "Search for yourself in something below you
     Search for yourself in reflecting white paper"
But she just reflects on the black of the ink
The black of the ink is all that rubs off
    "Search for yourself in these pressed and bound leaves
     Search for yourself until I let you find you"
Her face to the page, at the end of inspired,
She does one more line of my verse
And midnight strikes.

(c) Carrington