I'd Heard She Had A Deconstructive Personality
Then saw her on the sidewalk. A crash course. A kiss. In the bus. On the floor. With a book, legs set for the span of attention. Mind filling like a zeppelin. The alley. The abstract. Her feet the root of a word. Her head an eraser, no shading or shadow. I saw her at the bus stop. Whole body a tympanic drum brushed by a broom. Whole body a panda, unmotorized Victrola, miserable rat hole. Here and then here. Poppies exploding, smoke. I called her-- got to know her. Her secret self an igloo, covered with silly string. We talked until memory milked out all her mistakes. On the telephone. In an airplane. My fingers flashed in. Her fingers hang to dry on the back of a battleship, yet her legs have touched the earth where the dirt makes its list of the powerless and blessed. She washed the make-up from her face for good. I asked her near me. She said, "Rest."