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A Stolen Purse

A woven purse of shot silk threads
covered in a glitter like hundreds-and-thousands,
a dust from semi-precious stones
so the purse is abrasive to touch
inside a black leather handbag,
perhaps Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada,
which also contained car keys, a compact,
scent spray, cigarettes, a small can of mace,
the handbag most recently lying
on a double bed in the blue room
of an eighteenth century mansion
within extensive landscaped gardens
bordered by a crescent-shaped lake
that reflects and absorbs the night sky
and the stars like hundreds-and-thousands,
rather billions and trillions,
consequences of events too far away
to have been noticed, universes
coming into being, dimensions
unimaginable until the purse
was filched from the handbag, not on the bed,
but on the arm of its owner
so that the cosmos turned inside out
as the purse was passed from hand to hand
in a manoeuvre of thievery
as old as the first town and the first
crowded thoroughfare and the first
metallic chink of value you can’t eat
or create from, leaving its owner
in distress, transparent beads of tears
running down her cheeks, in the sun
glittering like hundreds-and-thousands.

ALSO READ | A Moment Lost to Time

Image by SplitShire from Pixabay | FOR REPRESENTATION PURPOSES ONLY

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