Behind its whistle, the train gathers
her gaze, skipping like a pebble
toward anyplace else. (As if away
was a place she might belong.
As if away was a song.)
Sally’s eyes desired
a city full of men
to pocket their cries like afterthoughts.
In the city no man loves
you like a country
man loves you, with cold hands
roughened by early work.
What woman needs it anyway?
that particular gentleness
men save for mornings after
fields? City: a proliferation of eyes,
unmet. City: a nakedness.
Strutting around like god
knows who might see.
Photo by Hendrik Wieduwilt, used and adapted under CC.
