Her unseamed flesh suggests neither
Fall nor insurgence but a sorrow
More prolific and pandemic than grain.
The dirty halo of her ancestors afflicts
Not through acquisition but through attachment.
A slavering of words unfit for a child’s ear,
A slavering of fists unfit for a child’s possession.
They’ve pierced her heart, worms
In the apple of eyes too blind to glint.
A key scratching door after door
In hopes of reconciling the fit.
There are no players in this game
No levels and no present moments
Worth the labor of acquisition.
Her mind approaches the air
Drinking in each passage, each tornado
As if it were a fever, a phase
In the consistency of consciousness.
Her red shoes splinter the ground
On which they rest, the unseen dervish
The mangled bike in search of vagrancy.
Her dress woven of snow-white cotton
Does not chance upon the sun
But on the slow and singular articulations
Of a moon half-risen and slightly strained.