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The Hell of Eternity It is as if she's breathing; Isn't she? the canvas waxing And waning with the air. A photo or hologram would Never work; so cold and smooth Like an ebony board, old, From a mill that is ripe. Her eyes lure pinholes of color From the brass light fixtures - Black like oil-churned opal On a wedding ring From a vantage that sees God Or becomes him When equipped with a smile Warped beyond its surface And the same she gives to me As to anyone else. Breathing the stale turpentine air Day in and day out.