KLARE VON REUTER

With the preserved fruit of your voice
the elevator's crystal cage
mounts to the fifth floor.

The subway train
bears the orange light of your skin
through wide tunnels.

The omnibus
scatters along the avenue its wheaten lashes
before the emerald sickle of your eyes.

A glass pamphlet, the revolving door
reveals your body's Ex-Libris
on the last page.