Young girl
All her life she had been chasing him as fast as she could go,
with kiddy-cars, roller-skates, bicycles, according to her age
and now motorcycles. Neighbors watched her passing through
wind, profiled like a knife, her hair following like a cartoon of speed.
The only way to have fun was to show the quarry, the beast,
that she wasn't afraid; safe as long as she was young and spry,
never taking her eye from that other eye or the articulate tail
as she baired and teased and sidled much closer than the others.
But here it is. She ran him into his ambush where everything
was set. Her beauty, we find, was motion, her fine body only the container
of this mess that sicken us. She turned her back or dream
of love, poor girl, or sneezed. How could it have happened?
Maybe she left a distiner lack, or had nothing to lose or leave,
but oh most broken, lost to all the delights she never discovered,
I remember particularly a brisk smile and acute touring eyes
that lit me dangerously, like headlights, as she passed. ⁷
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