Diorama (there is a love story)

It’s between the invisible and the blonde girl.

The blonde girl is a snakeskin,

and the moonlit field is the snake.

Her dress is the tree

in which the snakeskin hangs.

Everything’s been peeled.

The worn paths between the houses

are the clinging that follows her wherever she goes.

The wind is a pelt

that the summer tries to make her wear.

The breathing beside her

must be her new mother.

A drained limb of an evening.

She feels it first inside her mouth,

the animal filaments weaving together and beginning to heal over.

Somebody approaches and tries to hand her a flower.

The soldier, probably. Maybe the doctor.

She warns them both as they approach

Good, she says. If they want to,

they can call that love.