This is the world that is closed
like a void-a door swinging shut.
This is the world that speaks to me,
an endless void of blackness that fills
my eyes, fills my heart, fills my lung
like a shadow.
Clouds gather above, a thunderstorm
crashes into autumn, blocking me from
becoming something that is sinister.
Trees look like haggard old women,
dresses sway in shopping store windows.
I am Madame Quartinine, she cries, her teeth
showing slabs of white bread.