You spin on that
Victorian street,
a thaumatrope. Yet, here
there are no birds in cages.
The air is barren.
The two people forge.
But spin and laugh!
Obtuse. Look, for the mirror
produces the truth,
your necklace reversed.
I will paint you
a black silhouette of sorrow, Anna.
Seeing the pain in the statue
breaks the crystal of my eye
but the other stays open.
Why do you still not cry?
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