Doused in cheap gasoline
She danced to nursery rhymes, silver
from rain-breath and speed ~
round and round
in squiggly circles
of fumbling flawless
laughter ~ round and round
in smaller circles now
smaller,smaller,spinning
and shot down
choking, waning, only vaguely
ridiculous ~ like
a poor man's Christmas,
or a book-pressed petal ,
She hung on there ~ selfishly
hoping
you might pass her by, whistling her favourite song,
before she could safely ether away
in love
and private rage
private love has it's price
and she was born
a generous tipper, in pocketless
bohemian skirts and sewn-back
anklets of alphabets never
vowels
She was all that a day-time moon could
possibly be
but then day-time moons are never quite
moon enough ~
She watched you
pass her by, O
You did not,
you did not
whistle ~
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