Girl At a Bus Stop
A white dress full
of winter cherries;
hair curled with frost.
A carried box
tied with string
and legends.
Maybe a modelled
sister,or a ghost
from a playground.
You turn to
circumnavigate
in all this road
and wonder this is
as gone as a finger of snow
in April.
The sky is hasty
with a flock of clouds,
broody, hanging -
The next day empty,
just a shape without standing,
colder.
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