The White Witch

Paler than me even, she shone like a moth
as she frowned at the ticket machine
in the blinding train station.
I drank in the moon-white of her arms,
so perfectly matched to her crisp blouse,
her cool gold hair. I longed to touch her,
to keep her on my pillow. Instead,
to a dismayed intake of city breath,
she vanished into the morning air.

photograph by John Crowley

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