She carves her name on stones,
buries them in the ground,
and hopes they will be found one day
by an archaelogist with square-tipped fingers.
She listens to Morrison,
and paints poems in her mind.
She loves her feet.
Yeah, she loves her feet
as they weave trails on deserted streets.
She bounces words off her walls,
and listens in on the echoes.
On some days she picks up a telescope
and looks for her dreams between the stars.
She thinks she can smell the sound they make.
She looks for molten diamonds under the rocks,
And replaces them with forgotten heroes.
Her lovers drop daffodils outside her window,
but she’s already sniffing tomorrow’s roses.
She looks into the mirror
and imagines herself doing pirouettes,
then shakes her head when the leaves laugh.
Hitchhiking into the forest,
she runs into herself,
and too nervous to say hello,
she draws a curtain of mountains around herself.
She falls in love with random pages.
She puts them together and reads the story aloud.
But hey there’s no audience, yea we do have a crowd.
She asks the trees why their faces are sullen;
their answers leave her unsatisfied.
So she jumps into a hole in the ground,
leaving for the other end of the earth.