She combs her hair, like the dead are combed,
She carries the blue fragments under her robe.
She bears the fragment-world on a single skein.
She knows the words, but she only beams.
She mixes her smile in the glass of wine:
She must drink it, to exist in the world.
You are the photograph, where her fragments are seen,
When she leans toward making of life some meaning.excerpt from the poem
