The mirrors all hang at different angles
You see a dirty-faced girl drawing on the wall
Beneath painted bookshelves and paperbacks
Scarred by cigarettes you're thinking smokers
Preoccupied by decades of dust you think
Preoccupied by decades of dust you think
States
of being matter as parts of the scene
The girl is drawing a man in a short coat
Who
came from Morocco and lives now
In
an abandoned Chevy atop a hill he says
The radio gets better reception up here
Where
he’s listening to a public radio piece
About
a photography exhibit at the 1900 Paris
Exposition called contemporary life in America
In
one of the mirrors you see your own face
1 comment:
Listen to me, darlings of fashion,
I feel that your eyeliner speaks to me in ways
that only the great divas of Morocco would understand.
My face is haunted by desert landscapes.
Talitha Getty sashays to make the wind in my hair.
To be dry and inhospitable is essentially desertlike, but it is far from Moroccan.
I am so far from Moroccan I am practically home now
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