My veranda burns away
the old flowers now swept away
incense burns into a heap of heaven
my room smells virtuous at long last
my death is already just a portrait
my room somebody else's refuge
my hard bound secrets read out
by little girls in my old neighbourhood
older woman discuss at tea times
the number of stab wounds on me
and then the degree of the burns on my feet
and they get it wrong each time by 7 and 2.
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