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she resembles now a gargoyle

now a picador, a buffoon

her gestures, hints, imitating

this one or that, always a hint

away from recognition, almost


reminiscent of a scarecrow

pointing at an obelisk, perhaps

some dark pattern revealed–

the grand procession of primes

towards the zenith, they hold


a secret, a clue, sockets for eyes

an incantation ending with

a rag tail curtsey – you can’t

outguess them, puppet performers

all, while she, gipsy mother


front teeth missing, gazes deep

into our hearts, turns her tarots,

wipes a coffee stain, pronounces

her pronouncement, detailed

deceptive, intricately designed


    but always a hint away

from recognition

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© Johnmichael Simon



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