Seeing her this late afternoon Poem by Marie de Quatrebarbes

Seeing her this late afternoon, the whole thing, seeing her, she stopped in front of the inscription that presented her as perfect, excellent, memorial

outside, the smoke of a mushroom ad-libs smoke rising from a shelf

I can't tell if she was being concise, or escaping an extreme plan of clarity

seeing her escape, the movement was. At the same time it's night out. Tears hang balanced above a vertical sheet. Lashes flutter at the smoke, seeking a more external conflict

constant is an incalculable number of times

I'm not saying they notice the disappearance, I'm saying they're not sure if they see it