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The Hell of Eternity

It is as if she's breathing;
Isn't she? the canvas waxing
And waning with the air.
A photo or hologram would
Never work; so cold and smooth
Like an ebony board, old,
From a mill that is ripe.
Her eyes lure pinholes of color
From the brass light fixtures -
Black like oil-churned opal
On a wedding ring
From a vantage that sees God
Or becomes him
When equipped with a smile
Warped beyond its surface
And the same she gives to me
As to anyone else.
Breathing the stale turpentine air
Day in and day out.