Day and night she simulates dejection,
a lachrymal bondage inflicts on those around her,
those who love her and those disremembered
through a moist willful lens.
I walk through the intervening shadows to her room,
sunlight lying in sheaves across the lawn;
pick up and leave, she has no fair exchange
if you knock on the damaged lintel.
She tipples at the ice that burns her, face averted,
facing the sunlight, the level grass.