Louise

Draped across a sofa
her hands were knitting,
she lay in errant exile
the madam of gold-bricked streets


Parisian eyes,
a bleeding chamber,
precision in pretense;
she did a lot of LSD

Strange,
white-gloved,
estranged from morning
a ray of light bursting backward from her prism

The canvas folded
and fluttered to
the ground,
torn


She was not a pimp,
she was a jester