It's a wall so vividly and completely blue
it's almost as if there is no history
just Lucia, in stark relief
looking over her right shoulder
the light spreading on her cheek
and forehead, smooth except for
one worried wrinkle
she's always ironing some idea
from the pile of crumpled laundry
of letters in her illegible journals
but history lives there in the wall
and in the long blond hair, falling
in waves over Lucia's left shoulder.
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