THE DRESSING ROOM:

Garlanded in the sad drapes
of morning, the dressing
room tries on her suspenders,
with a huff and then a sigh;
which escapes somewhat non-
chalantly from her jaundiced
lips. Then sauntering over to
the mirror, the dressing room
blushes; perms of peach falling
like jacarandah ash through
her hair. The dressing room
just shakes her tresses with
all the somnolence of a flying
acrobat paying homage to the
bewitchment of a funeral of
bees. Now the dressing room tries
to locate the door (in order that
she might fuse with the pith of
the morning) but she finds that
she cannot leave herself.