[A reply to Gemm's poem]
Leaning beside the fireplace,
the portrait sits, unhung, the frame
exquisite; wood engraved by hand.
Eyes drawn to it the guests enquire
inquire timidly - what is this? -
For it seems to be a strange inward hill
of hair, like a black hole lined with luminescence.
None of them leave satisfied
when told it is of your nose hair.
Only one, drunk, knew little enough
to ask why it was not hung.
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