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Last Night

Last night I spoke to a dead woman with green face.

She told me of her good life among the living,

with a faithful man. He was right there

beside her as tall as I, and moving

like me, with kind motions. If she did breathe,

it was just to talk and tell her life

in their basement smelling moist

like freshly opened earth. He was good to her

and she had worked as a typist

every day and came home to cook.

It was a good life with her husband,

he was kind; and she took hold of his hand

and said, 'In this basement we've made a home,

with me working as typist and he studying

his music.' She was dead, that much she understood

herself by her tone; and she looked at me

with green eyes.