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Madame Roulin
Madame Roulin in her chair, over
shadowed by a ponderous backdrop
of daisies, lights the room with a ring
whose shine quivers like liquid honey.
It reflects her tightly coiled hair, the
color of the face of these bold flowers.
Hers is an indifferent immortality: she, a
landlady, not royalty. Strangely immobile
in a life defined by motion, she sits placidly,
to consider her portrait in exchange for rent.
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