Conscience by Nick Cooke

a single blood spot

on the snowdrift gown

like a miniature japan

 

sprung devil knows where

a mystery less pressing

than how to erase it

 

for this is a queen

whose crystal feet must glide

toward a matchless altar

 

her maids are frantic

heads could literally roll

in the end they paint it over

 

with the very pigment

used on other occasions

to spectralise her face

 

but watch in terror

convinced it was godsent

and the instant of truth

 

will out out out

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