Marked

Frail ghosts

of fireworks

trickle down

her pale palms,

after an untimely

explosion,

staining her pure skin

blue. Like the putrid

blue in the breasts

and thighs of

Renoir's

ghastly women.

(Ugh, Renoir.)

She left the pen,

oozing,

on the bench

in front of the

Toulouse-Lautrec

without remorse

and washed her hands

of the scribbles

any child

could do.