A ritual performed at midday
Twenty-seven women surround a heptagon
Prostrated, they wait for the clouds to break
At which time
They fling themselves onto their backs
Staring directly at the Sun
Their eyes burn away to nothing
Yet they can still see
Beauty lies in the heart of the beholder
Fourteen years pass
A woman stands at a bus stop
Glancing at her watch occasionally
A black dress on
A worn leather attaché case dangling from her side