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.