Non-Erotic PoetryBellocqThey're all here,
his girls,
caught for ever on fragile glass,
some clothed others
less modest.
He may have hidden
his misshapen ugliness,
his longing behind the lens,
lusting as he stood shrouded
by black cloth
that made him invisible
so easily.
They gladly posed,
singly or in twos
and threes, stilted little tableaus.
Was it his frantic fingers
that scratched away their faces
trying to beat down his demons?
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