The girl not seventeen.
Half breasts.
A pony tail.
The insolence of youth.
Stiff backed.
Fine boned.
At ease with herself,
The nudity, his gaze.
Each true,
Inimitable shape
Just right,
And the proud, marrying,
Great hips.

And this, a line
And nothing else,
Spare, supple,
Free, assured.
A shape that finds itself,
Beginning anywhere
And still like her
Poised, finished,
And untired.
To say almost nothing
And each thing she is,
Simply itself
And nothing else
And walking in the skin.


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