Is this sought sea dream of the Arctic fox? The green below the circles
of the white, above her eyes? On Formica
tables where the woman smocks beneath
glass borders of their vacant smiles, they pass
by windows formulating styles,
that last year's ermine seasons elongate
in memory still into instants: they teach not
each others' known and bland apologies
to her at least, below the shadow
of a fractured lover's new repair.
It is not the way of things, apologies
are miles contracting and expending
not for her, who sought no marriage gladly.
Still the glass eyed lady by the Formica
drinks milkshakes and remembers when the glass was fit,
to view her, now it has become too late…
but apathy is not another's mirror,
if her sea-vair eyes not yet the face of hate.
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