A girl, yellow hair streaked with black,
screams as people pass.
She is not the genie of the empty fountain
where she sits, no siren of the village.
She does not know what she needs
to be unsatisfied,
having gazed so long mountains disappear
and the light leads nowhere.
First there must be something to compare,
something ordinary that is and is not real--
not the eglise--no ringing repetitions
that fail utterly to alter the air.
She sounds in broken notes
dissatisfaction with what isn't there.
from Evidence of Things Seen
Prairie Schooner Summer 2005