she’s gentle. she smells like tea
and milk. she doesn’t frighten me.
her roads are quiet, too. she is elbows
and cushions and watermarks.
she doesn’t mind catching hold
of a cold pole when the subway sways.
wind only grazes her skirts. her hair
comes undone, improving her.
she dreams and forgets by
morning; mysteries do not trouble her.
she walks with an invisible, bending
grace. she sets the glass on the counter
and watches the water gleam. tall or small,
she’d trade her own bones for a bite of that cookie.
it’s all right. I know she ends softly.
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