Not a minute to lose, the women who can,
trample, shove, pack the window, stand on the sill
to howl at the hobbling men dragging
half-clothed bodies over the courtyard stones.
Heads big as houses, legs that aren't there,
crutches flailing like broken windmills,
bodies dancing to wild unwritten songs.
Annie's women crave the Procession of Horribles
freed for an hour of fresh air—
mirrors have long since been broken.
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