To Obscure a Body Of Light

How the girls love to believe
in celestial bodies, in summer
and ice, in bright disks of light.
The abductor is a human creature.

The creature burns like a star
raging white, a constant light,
the girls’ dark hair parted to the side.
A young girl disappears—

not in parts, not as night.
The problem is not absence,
but a blinding summer light.
The girls like dark rail ties

set down on dust so bright.
The abductor winds to a stop
with a pistol in his lap. Imagine
such a wreck. Not the act,

but the smell of gasoline.
Not the shape, but a glare
blazing without meaning.
How the girls’ bodies grow

longer and darker as the earth
rotates toward twilight.
The orange ball falling
below the horizon line.

How the girls love to believe
in night—even in the white of his eyes,
the whine of his machine,
a single face illuminated by dash-light.