her beautiful scarf drawn carelessly
around a beautiful neck;
she throws it there and looks down,
and the man on the corner
looks at her eyelashes like
they are the last dandelions
he will see this century.
she blinks and on she walks-
harvesting these words in her
pretty brain, like manna;
cupping them in cherub hands,
and sipping them like
generic, sifted, blue rainwater-
she lets them fall,
through long gifted fingers.
these fingers will caress a brush
which will paint pretty painful sunsets;
the pen they hug knows the greater
pain, but the ecstacy
of her crying curving script,
a life-story bleeding into
drying black-blue ink.