She gazes out of less than a fistful of color, Amused at the irony of being viewed And letting herself viewed through A piece of clear glass stuck on a box of trapped light, Amused at this trace of a trace she would leave On a day’s door, this print of a hand, which usually She dips into water, but which somehow got daubed With paint.

He in passing, a tourist, would look at this Nailed to a wall, and unable to read the language, The script foreign, would based on the barometer Of his own weather, thus report this sighting:

“I saw a woman. She must be a dear saint. I saw a woman. She surely ate the souls of men.”