She stands there. Lamp posts lay ahead of her, shrinking in a line.
Go to this girl. Go!
to her and see what you yourself are afraid of being.
Look to her when you ask "Who is going to be my revolution? "
And she holds no stiff and long shaft to defend herself on a day when
She finds herself in a vice of two genders.
Two people she is supposed to be just to be
The one person she wants to be.
The person you would be if you fled the scene of your systematically
that you claim to be the purpose
Of your life
Of your meaning
Of your plan.
She will not avoid the hobo, even in the night when
Shadows and imagery are no longer useful.
She has confidence in the nature of her race.
She dissects all stereotypes and judgements to a grain
And it is soluble
And tastes of sovereignty.
And she is then clean of it after this ritual
When she can love something in everyone.
And is free to discover that which many people don't see in others
As they have reservations about the poet,
and the skid.
I will go to her
And to her I will become the anomaly that conforms
to a sensible
representation of herself.