Beulah

She notes the distance around, the hallway’s public telephone, a screed of wheat when found, she wouldn't dine or sing, luminous solitary but not alone, strapped to this old thing, her granny fleece of Down, like the Book she holds, her feet on the ground, what better cure for everything, than an oat field blue smoked, around her a hundred kin, her drink is ginger ground, lemon linen and eau de cologne, she whispers out her love, her face is shining pink, she can see them all watch them rise and sink, across this sepia carpet.