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The girl is liquid

by Scott Kurtz

She flows, salient, on sidewalk veins,
backstrokes through desert days
and dives into conflict with viscous intellect.

She stands stock-still, knee deep in lucidity
and lets down her hair; each strand a tributary
streaming unconsciously down her breast.

She hums to herself in languid watercolors
(subtle gradients like cream in black coffee)
and paints the notes, the staff, the clef.