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Pacific Miss

Glenn Smith
copyright 2000 Glenn Smith

I rode thumb with her
for three damp weeks.(she
wore a bad page torn
with worn shears)
 
Between Seattle and Neah Bay,
we squatted our sunsets
away between dense boles
and shook a little tent
to unmind hunger(despite
her mobile feasts of find
and steal and fingernails)
 
Long fruitless at sixteen springs,
her bumpy morning pretense
was a papercut to the eye(but
man that girl could ride)
 
Sometimes, when wood draft blew
hot and wet as coyote breath
her grapeskin jeans would wick
salmon honey downwind,
flush enough to draw tears
at spitting distance(she
had skin tight as new paint)
 
When the waiting rain
got too familiar,
we'd mooch floors
from friends less
than casual(she'd
grin a rosary
of holy pearl
from far too much
hard sweetness)
 
All those southern plans
could not include me
I was owned
by greener climes(blithely
fluid, she filled near spaces)
 
Creeping mists saw morning
good-byes and I watched
her ghost fade into another
passing shadow.
The forest behind
bent it's green boughs in sigh
and wept(we
were kind enough
not to mention love)



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