And here, the clairvoyant pauses,
his face a glob of wet putty dusted with icing sugar,
his collar an inverted horseshoe;
'You,' he points to a saxophonist in the third row,
(he is not playing the saxophone at this moment,
but it lies in a black monogrammed case at his feet)
'have lost someone.'
The acknowledgement, when it comes,
is a slow, sad nod,
like the tug on a thread.
'Well,' says the clairvoyant,
'here she is!' and the curtain at the back compresses
to reveal a haggard revenant, scribbly with flies,
lumbering onto the stage, tracking seaweed,
mulched grey flesh,
the rusted links of an anklet.
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