A tinted, unnecessary warmth coils
loosely around us, adding to the noiseless shambles
we had no time to predict, so that recovery
as in “speedy,” as in autumn’s cool sweep,
appears at its most fictive, the way
our heroine is, spending most of her day
in front of the mirror. Please identify with her.
She is lovely, Victorian, her auburn hair, upswept,
held by tortoise-shell pins and silver combs;
moonstones hang, drop by drop, from her ears
and throat. The rest of her has the voluptuous,
lacy, pale look of dried hydrangea. Her hands,
innocent, but craving; clearly, she is skilled,
at needlepoint and paint. By now we should be spell-
      bound,