um, excuse me- i'd like a word.

a book about london

róndòn ni tsúìte no hon

black beyond pitch slept over her eyes
misted them foggy and dyed and blind.
underside of her feet were wet with
pus that bubbled from stumbles
from the corner of right-there cuts.

ice-masks were night-masks
and patches saw sun- or glasses,
if she could just finger-fondle upon.

and 
during
the
in-between
          no one ever even realized she had gone.
          they simply assumed she was acustomed to
          being left alone in the dark.

but who gets acustomed
to loneliness? 

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