Homage to Hieronymus Bosch
A woman with no face walked into the light;
A boy, in a brown-tree norfolk suit,
To her seeming skirt.
And he stopped,
And I, in terror, stopped, staring.
Then I saw a group of shadowy figures behind her.
It was a wild wet morning
But the little world was spinning on.
Liplessly, somehow, she addressed it:
The book must be opened
And the park too.
I might have tittered
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