A woman,
a woman on the train
spoke to me from sized pulp
then print from within,
in a way I've never known before;
I still don't know it now.

This woman and another
from the same workshop
call on me from time to time,
both ghosts now, invisible, 
like the odorless axe,
that misty guillotine,
detected in their still bodies of text.

I saw one framed in a box once,
holding a cigarette,
too busy to smoke.
This woman, this ghost spoke
in a black and whitened tone:

". . . it is June, and I'm tired of being brave."