She's out again,

crushing rocks

with her eyelids.

While you attach tennis raquets to your back

and call them

wings.

She's turning cars over in the street

and scraping out their guts with her bare hands,

hoping to find a cage big enough

to hold the way she's feeling,

until she knows what to do with it.

While you wash your hands in gasoline

and wait on her front porch,

knowing that when she gets home,

she'll need a cigarette first

and then,

she'll need

a light.