There was a young woman
who lived in her shoes.
Bare-backed, she sat
with elders and sheened
her nails with sloe.
Felt purse, trunk,
berries in bottled gin.
Smoke rose
from the purples of the ground.
Moscow maybe next, or
Poland, where the numbers burned.
Purples of the mosses turned.
Some million shades.
Six million more.
Purples of the mosses,
and all the millions, blue.
She had so many lives,
she didn’t know what to do.
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