Here's a girl from a dangerous town
 She crops her dark hair short
 so that less of her has to frown
 when someone gets hurt.

 She folds her memories like a parachute.
 Dropped, she collects the peat
 and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot
 here where they eat.

 Ah, there's more sky in these parts than, say,
 ground. Hence her voice's pitch,
 and her stare stains your retina like a gray
 bulb when you switch

 hemispheres, and her knee-length quilt
 skirt's cut to catch the squall,
 I dream of her either loved or killed
 because the town's too small.