Gothic Novel

A woman alone is open, gaping like

a button hole without a button hook.

She carries her muff before her like an offering

Flic, flic! The eyes of strangers

slit the pause like razors.

This railway carriage stinks of creosote, wet fur.

“I prefer the window up, thank you”

“I prefer it down”

She lights a Sobranie to remind her

of Devon in the haying; the gentlemen

lean forward, reading the initials

on her morocco case.

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