In her patterned
Dishabille
Of flowered flea
Market dresses
A naked limb
An arm, a leg
A breast, and yet her
Face not in the frame
Francesca
The mystery begins
Ghostly images
Appear like
Gossamer blurred
Apparitions
Velvet, fur
Taffeta, tulle
A shutter blinks
You dissolve into yourself
Francesca
Your secret is hidden
Life she said, is like
Old coffee-cup sediment
Almost thirty years
And now
I’m looking down
From a similar window
As you leapt
To the littered street
I wonder what release
Was in your mind
Francesca
That cold
That cold
That cold January
All she left
Are negatives
And silver gelatin
All she left
Are negatives
And silver gelatin
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