Her forehead presses against the window glass.
She is painting breath against fingerprints
and rain stains.
She is hiding behind her heavy sighs
looking into the night and against the moon.
She is leaning in.
She's too young to doubt and too young to believe
She's got virgin thighs and 12 year old dreams
etched in her poetry.
When the lights go out in her bedroom
she thinks about death and other lights
in other rooms.
She's a tree climber with calloused hands.
She's heard of Jesus and the Sandman.
They keep her up at night.
If there's a place for the seeds that fall from the trees
and a place for the people on bended knees
then there's a place for her.
Out the window there must be something.
Out the window there is nothing
but the moon in the sky.
