not one with hair like the sun,
but with a dusty halo of grey smoke
And the lawnmower is buzzing
towards her in straight lines
up and
down
the lush green lawn--
up and
down
a predictable path, creating
a hypnotic pattern in the earth's
prickly carpet.
Her fragile, powdery head (((floats)))
above the grass and should be able
to see: the oncoming doom. But
she can't move. She's planted,
rooted in the stubborn dirt of her fate.
The two-way abstraction called love
is propped up by air
shaped into sounds
of hollow faith:
words;
at times, even less than.
Because as long as the mirage
****hovers****
inside the tiny jewelry box
inside her mirrored ears,
she will swim in that pool
until it all dries up,
sucking the last drop of milk
from
her hapless
dandelion
heart.
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