A lattice of eyelashes hides the rafters of people,
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tourists fluttering hands and lace mixing
with bare feet soiled and flashing.
Balconies grow forward in swirls, painted flakes
pushing down like hands onto the face of the convicted,
ignored by the curious few who stare.
Quick quick slow to the bench, steps checked by
base metals, forcing the rhythm unlike any
dance lesson witnessed.
Now beside the window starts the play,
the curtain comes down rather than up
reducing the man to a child.
A hood of sacking cloth so ladies could look
without the feathers twitching in their hats.
A child in the curtains is left sitting there,
a curio for the collar and skirt flitting
along the railings, passing through from
the prison back to the meadows
Ask not what you can do to poetry, but what poetry can do to you.