Girl

Long striding girl, wake up again.  The concrete is not your friend.

Scented red traffic light medleys on nights like tonight: when the rain came in early afternoon and the heat from today baked the ground this evening.

Sweet, bent down girl,  loosen your limbs.  The mountains are not your friends.

Rising around like monsters and men, they make the horizon like knives and butter and soft warm rolls that remind you of home.

Silly strange girl, break in your guns.  The outlaws can be your friends.

I remember the world when I thought it was good and worth being good in but now what I think of as good is prismatic and colored quite differently from before.  Like socks with no matches, I try to remember how many you have to pull out to be guaranteed pureness.  What was that again?

Beautiful dream girl, get over those men.  The unworthy cannot be your friends.

Smaller times (like the light in tunnels) when self-proclaimed demigods would rattle and blow and puff up like they were organic in order to judge what was actually pure.  Broken bits fell down to the ground and those who noticed were scared.

Recovering girl, bandage your wounds.  The weak ones will fall down again.

Thoughts that drift and desire to fly, desire to flee and be free.

Long standing girl, wake up again.  The concrete is not your friend.