She’s beyond the black eye-socket windowoverlooking the November backyardhalf-dead with drifts of leavessurrounding the empty trunks and rootsa near abandoned city sitting ready for the snowfall. She’ll float to the window pane. It’s fog-warpedfrom her ghoulish breath steaming outwards.Her tight, tattered-hood illuminatedwith twin-purple suns for eyesdevil jewels off some haunted, living sarcophagus.