She finds eyes in a flea market basket,
hands in the sand at the beach.
When she gets home, the civil servant in her bed doesn't recognize her,
is desultory, communicating in lazy gestures,
dying of something
and has been for years.
"I will leave the door standing open when I go," she thinks, and does,
knowing it will drive the civil servant insane.
This is as cruel as she ever gets,
but it feels good like a train station
when the cars are new,
the line is clear and
the clocks are told by tarot and text message
sent by St. Creola,
Our Lady of the Favorable Signal Light.