Colleen Fixes Her Hair In A Flower


I press against the window of a bankrupt bookseller,
where a misread phrase in closed acid pages
states you perfectly. I see a woman 
who, from this angle, facing away, could be you, 
haunting urban surfaces like sunlight.

Only words that dare to be dying 
could capture you in the black glass
whose pinholed stars invert the image in my heart.
Only pastoral words describe your dancing.
A car screeches just as you start your song.

My hand is huge on the reflected sky.
Here, I can touch the crumbling prose
and my winces are rewarded, like a jar
full to heaven with fireflies.


July 11, 2001