I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful. -- Marilyn Monroe
a little girl walks on the west side of the city, eyes closed, as the sun sets behind her, framing her figure in an orange outline, as if she were Gabriel sent from heaven to walk here. she fingers the fringes of her skirt while she thinks - we don't know what she thinks (we wish we did) - she carefully places one be-sneakered foot in front of the other, surreptitiously curling her toes inside, so as to gain strength in unity. she treads lightly, almost as if her soles never touch the ground, but hover an imperceptibly slight distance above the concrete, her tongue purses against the bottom of her mouth, creating a bridge between her molars, so her exasperated singing might run across her mouth freely, rocking the boat between her teeth before exiting in an electric hum that woos the moon into the night sky.
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