she is a blustery pink: lukewarm
watercolor slickening the page. shallow
water, crisp and frostbitten, tickles
her toes and she's taken with the broken
starlight she sees reflected
there, thinks she can piece it
back together (foolish girl flitting
through the river, quick and alive as
a hummingbird—save your bright
wings for later days). every smile,
little laughter, lingers like a blush
she can't hide beneath her
fingers, leaving her chirping. so sure
love is coming like a train,
she can't see it's going to
run her down. with her heartbeat
trilling, she sings, starry-eyed,
about this strange sensation and how
it aches like smiling for photographs or
grazes like a swishing skirt or
leaves her twisted up like a phone cord
tangled with hours. little bird,
hush your cries, it's not time to sing
just yet.