Screwdriver

She dealt in cards of silver rust,

And blue-clad knights

Rushing in for a soul

That had been drained long since.

She wore opium-den perfumes,

Which caressed the purple skin

Of her pale neck,

Folded like white linen.

Her eyes undone

Unfastened

By the trembling fingers, trembling

Trembling lips,

And she makes love

To the stake,

She makes love to the readers

The listeners.

She dealt in cards of death,

Painted artistic and solitary --

Chill and well-formed,

Though death is none

Of the above.

She became the filler

Of a void for the soul-mate,

A screwdriver taken to the bolts

And the mortise

That held her story.