Objective Confession
"Who is this Murphy? Is he,
has he anything at all?"
– Samuel Beckett
She leans
Stretching a line of hair
Like a silver scar
Across her cheek
In the courtyard
Behind the tower
Bitter
The moment she speaks
Her face pastoral
Shadowed in sun
Water
The coin trembling
In the fog
The streetlights stretch
Like so many haloed saints
Alone in their line
A Leak In The Safe 