A quarter slipped in to her third-eye-slit:
her mouthbox creaks at the hinge, jaws
steel open: Inside--the arched way, a ballerina
turns on her toe, arm-bows drawn up
she twirls to a tune untwirling--In the fog
of the mirror, initials running
clean
The ding of lips lidded shut.
The brass lace latched. Song folded up.
I love this...the imagery...your poems are always a full sensory experience, allowing me to tap into multiple senses simultaneously. Dessert for the soul.
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