Maria Morisot - poem

It grabs

me; as I

thrash myself

in the

waiting room,

denying the

essence of

my existence;

that improper

sum,

And all

I can

see is

the bleak

passing of

a dead

sun,

Quick folds

of skin

expend them-

selves

And I

harbor

giants of

disproportion

within my

walls,

where I wait,

deliciously

weighing

the echoes of

her words.