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Whitewash

She wears her porcelain,
pallid and brittle, upon
her face.
She is the frame, within it
the caricature.

The eyes round in
astonishment-- round
in fear.
The nose too sharp,
the flushed lips pursed tight
as a clam.

Slight fissures snake
their way to her edges.
She hears the hissing, the whistling of
wind between her spaces.

She shuffles on
against cold.
Another chalky fragment clatters to
her feet
with each shivering step.




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