Too Tall in the Lagoon

lying in the cemetary, besides Tomas
and Shruwski, inhaling the last of
a cigarette and the afternoon sky
behind low, reverent graveside trees
you come again, there
picking over a rock pile as improbable
in the tidal lagoon as you were in the market in St. Louis
full of exhausted americans, (arms clutching bags and bags
oil in the corners of their eyes,
pushing out the tips of their fingers
as remote from the sun as the fuel black from their pores)

stepping carefully through the loose lagoon sand
lingering on the shells you imagined around your neck
as you lingered on the fruit in the market that day,
where a man called you beautiful
and told me i was lucky as he gathered our apples
in front of his stomach
"you are like my cousin," he said
"first she hated being tall and then he realized she could use it"
then we walked away and his eyes followed you to his cousin
and i saw how wearisome being a girl
in a world of dissapointed men
could be

on the lagoon its only me and the crows watching you,
knotted braid over your shoulder bright
open jacket hanging over your dress towards the sand
past your blue jeans and long witches boots
your eyes scanning the ground
harvesting with the crows

this is how i remember you today
while the light tells me its time to get up
and put the bicycle between my legs