The Property of a Lady

147 In the secret conversation between a house and its collapse, how do you figure? Not swan-like in your stillness. Something primitive and ghoulish in your tendency to blur. In a crowd of women with flowering heads, how does a neck become a question? A swag of sapphire hair. A hem a hemisphere— dear fox, dear ghost. Stitching threnodies. A reeking empire. A deer. A dough to cut your mouth on. THE PROPERTY OF A LADY MANDE ZECCA ...