Telling: Streams & Logs


And still

She stands
with her fist in her hip
and her belly mooning
the pale of her shirt.
Her looking
curtails my looking.

I drink my tea.

She's looking for something—
on the roof and in the trash
and in the high misted branches
of the hemlock. Her hands
don't know what to do. How
long must she wait?

And still,
and still she stands.