Cadaver
A young woman, her form
still bearing a mirage of beauty.
In her detail she decays
closer still, a beauty returns
as a micro-delicacy.
Her charm dips in and out
like a swan through the bodies spoilage.
Da Vinci and his artist acolytes,
those red-handed anatomists,
all owe her rent.
The swan should be redrawn,
blood-money paid
with those same blunt tools
they broke into her with.
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