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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