They think they know her as she bends over,

her cheek stroking the spruce of pine,

the tufts of her hair, static – dreams wafted in the near space

of suggestion.

They cross their legs and lean into each other –

eyes forward, slight with whispers, presumptions -

they know the program, and have bought the ticket;

they wrote the music, and metered the love.

 

She holds them up, with the curves and crashes of her palm;

up and down - they weave the sea shoal with their reflections,

unable to understand the moon,

and her neck breaks the spotlight,

forward and back with no hesitation, forward and back –

too lost to decide what it is to be held forever.

 

Let their eyes gurgle with water,

 

her furthest thought from the bow –

a moth wing torn on the lines drawn to hide

the darker side –

this is what she permits.

 

Her leg, her pointed foot, slipping through

the heavy wood is

now

but if they just spoke to each other, later, after...

 

it wouldn’t be.

 

Don’t seek to know me,

she sighs,

 

the blackout, so quick.

 

Hands beat and smack,

stung with the fight

 

of leaping forward into the night

and taking her.