The Poetry Corner

Silver Coins

By Paul Cameron Brown

Seen the whores in doorsteps, slack, crouched as packing crates behind their quiet wardrobe lamps, inset like a skeleton's crown there to bend our will, provide passageways to power and suggestion; the winding entrance to rouged light flickering with powdered flesh yellow of gold, then black to ivory a frightful circus in a palace of turn within the grate of execution.