Charlotte

a lost girl poem

He meets her the way
her father would.
In darkness, edges blurred,
not quite real.

Her hands fidget hot
at the sides of her dress,
those swollen cremations
of cakes, thighs, moonlight.

If only his face
held a sex, she thinks,
she might impale herself
upon it, content.

The splintering of silk
occurs when she´s turned away.
Later, at the barge, she senses
the quiet tang of the wind,

the boats that linger
disjointed at their ropes,
aching for shores
without syllables

as if Time were a portrait
eternally out of focus.