Spectrum

forty.

There's a woman in the back of this dimly lit coffee shop, one saturday night in the city.
She's playing backgammon and wearing a purple beret,
Talking quietly to herself instead of the young man opposite

Her face hangs from behind her ears like a handkerchief.

There are more colors on this woman than the walls, and all
The skin staring into them.

Australia never said she was dying, till all her color had run out
Save for blue wrapped bones
And there was a white-haired woman in Bordeaux,
Told me black was the only thing to make a girl look alive anymore.