Sarcophagi

They say that Garbo aged--

in vanity or grief--
behind scarves of silk
so sheer that neither wind
nor breath could molest
their careful architecture
of privacy.  And rumored too,
and more unsettling,
the antique mirrors,
made purposeless by velvet
shrouds, could not witness
time or light or change...

and thus, in those dim precincts,
her face unwrapped--
like some unraveling
pharaohic bride preserved--
her head would fall
a feather in the bleached
white sand and close
the veils before her
eyes.  Then she would see
in dreams
the wanton memories
of youth
impossible and gone.