How can she be beautiful？ Eyes， ribs， the slope

    and angle of bone. The flesh itself is finished，

    so close it's come to the end

    of hunger， a husk set aside， tied shut

    at the knees and ankles. Thumbs hooked

    with clean white cord. What used to be.

    Famine in the Sahel， the eyes blown out.

    She graces and wrecks the gallery walls

    with her vanishing. Her lips dark with flies.

    A man stubs out his cigarette.

    And yet the earth's haunches， its flanks of sand.

    Devious leaves and riverbeds， the pungent stars.

    Something petalled and lush near the stone tomb

    where her eyes may yet open.

    Swept clean. Someone has left a plate of salt fish

    and wine. This is arousal——how things live sometimes

    beyond great hurt. Elastic beauty. The lunatic flesh.