(no subject)

Wandering laundry on lines, leaf ladybugs,
Spun coins' graceful falls off of tables, running,
Clean blazes away into bits from that meatless sun,
The rorschach spillings of dark every second in shadow,
Slight bow of a moth too stubborn to flee.
My seeing her must have come from those.

This and that and you make the lady.
And whoever she is can only come through it.
Walk through the lady, lady away in unladylike bits, unladylike.

And whoever she is and the new thing happens.
And no shadow exists but it's her behind it.
All laundry lines lead back somehow to her.
And she is the meat in the sun.

We don't tell that she's changed more than names a few times.
But just once she changed everything.