listens to Coltrane in the morning
(soft as a waterfall
pouring liquid jade
across the border (where
                         the dogstar goes
to rest and her kingdom declines
(twists slowly,
                torn
from its fragile innocence (a trampoline
spirit hit too hard), her back bruised
with the weight of a thousand years)

(She was born her fathers daughter,
she sings the same song
and in the morning rises
in its refrain;  alive
stronger for it)

while she celebrates summer
in its details (counting out
the seconds in Marlboros
and Tequila, or by sitting
on the roof (one leg
                                 hanging over
(like a rose grasping
a fence (stretching its arms
to the sun
                 (budding,
                                 blooming
through August (but decaying
just as soon)))))).


Some Other Kind Of Index