she can hold your hand if you want to


the girl
walks eating the letters
on her blouse

listening to small imports
honking their compact horns

driving through red lights
stop signs that serve as her eyes
fish market glances
glazed finished stares

your wheel of fortune
is not fast enough
they better call the red cross

because when they lay there
on their blood
bearing the smell of liquid red
they will see a shimmer of light
reflecting on the whitest of teeth
between the lips
in the center of the smile
of the paramedic sitting
next to you

the van will move slowly
through the night
on wet streets
wailing your name
spitting it loudly
through its
public address system