MISS X

Miss X, yes, the curvy Miss Ecks,
has crossed my path, at least:
hovering about her brief,
infinite, unsuspecting etes.
She's as supple and clean
as dawn's tender breeze;
happy, smooth and deep
as grass under water.
She turns sad at times,
with that mural sadness that traces
speedy idols and sketches
troubles spectres on her face.
I think of her as a young girl
inquiring things of an old woman;
like a bewildered little donkey
entering a city, burdened with hay.
There's a grown woman in her, too,
who fills her eyes with sudden fear,
and moves inside her and tears up
her innards with acid tears.
Miss X, yes, who smiles at me
and doesn't want to tell me her name,
has told me now, standing on her shadow,
that she loves me, but doesn't love me.
I let her shake her head left and right,
saying no and no, until she tires of it
and my kiss on her hand leaves a winged
seed to bud serenely beneath her skin.

All day yesterday
the wet light glittered,
and Miss X went out, with a thin
cloak draped over her shoulders, in love.
She was never so girlish, never,
in a time so lovely, so lover-like.
Her hair fell on her brow,
her eyes, and my soul.

I took her by the hand and we walked
the whole of the rainy afternoon.

Ah, Miss X, Miss X, hidden
flower of dawn.

You'll not love her, sir, you don't know how to.
I'll see her tomorrow.