Glamorous

She politely recognizes your resemblance to herself; she admires it and imbues you.
She wears her skirts to show her legs, she’s worked for them and they work for her.
She is irrevocably aware of how she seems and how she stands,
She appears to you a fragmentary figure, all hips and bones and hair.
I see the truth in the night, late when she comes home,
When dark lips smudge and darker eyes smear;
And she realises to be alone is bad but worse yet
Is to be in bad company.
She lets the wind blow right through her again;
What will next year’s fashions be?