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The woman, the lover, stands on the edge of history
She stares at the ghost:the fearless shatterer of
windows and marketplaces. Over there, the
unreluctant one. That ghost comes to her
because love is born in the spectral breakers
of time.

The ghost tilts her head and smiles
"There is little comfort in the world of color and light"
The city's eyes invoke the woman's body
The men in the corner continue to laugh at her
She wears her weight like stacks of tires
As she is told
The other person has walked away in the middle
of their conversation.
This is the sickly fabric through which she must love
This is the fabric that the ghost of gray sunlight
and shadows has come to rend. When that world
arrives, she will love and play and think and
labor and argue and create without the fear of
another's sharp-bladed words.