To Look at Her

boots

You’d never think
she was the sort

to hide a flask away in her sock drawer
to need a snort before bedtime twice a week
to wake up sweating from a dream of the house she lived in when she was
only twelve

How could such a
regular looking girl

cry in her sleep, when there’s nothing but sunshine
to wake her–while subconscious memories
stick in motion, imprint on eyelids, pool softly between flesh and
spirit

How much can we
possibly know

of anyone, as the sun rises, sleeps,
and rises east–calling the good world awake, and
people to put their dreams to bed. Days end; worlds spin. Sadness comes
and goes

And Sunday mornings she pulls
on her boots
and walks to church to sing

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