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We Know Not To Where She Runs Only That She Is Gone
Her feet beat against the grass
Her eyes riveted to the side
She dodged a man smoking a pipe
And a breeze of freckled flies
The music swelled under her breast
Her china bones were at their best
And no one would have guessed
That she had just confessed
The priest all dressed in white
Told her to run away
And that's why she was sleeping
In a barnyard full of hay
Her hands were full of love
Her ribs bore crimson blood
The chicken clucked and pecked her neck
The rain that fell was sweet and wet
She tried to run
And then succeeded
Her flowers cried
When she was needed
But she was gone
With a puff of smoke
And a stifled yawn
And a strangled choke
To where she runs, we do not know
Good bye little girl
We wish you luck
Now twirl your curl
And run amok
So abstract.