as the wind. She blows
through the trees. And swirls
in a billowing gusty breeze. But nobody

sees her face. She's the mist hanging
in the air, the drips of sweat
on his neck from ear to ear. She's the

condensation on the bathroom mirror. He
looks into hoping to see clearer. But he can't wipe
it off. She's a lipstick stain stuck

on a cloth, hidden in his breast pocket. She'd
hoped to be Tiffany's locket, gold, and shining
in the sun/not covered over as a nun.