Every time her bare foot touches the street,
she's making love to the universe.
She slips, naked, into an alley;
I cannot hold this pagan ghost.
Our eyes engage in trench warfare
before she dissolves into birds.
I covet the way she is bright with darkness,
how she dances on broken glass.
My suburban self cannot encapsulate this shapechanger:
shifting from craven raven to startled pigeon (always something with wings).
She is the dusk, and the pre-dawn sky
with laughter small and sharp as stars.
I cannot fathom this shadow-lust.
She calls to my hollow bones