the doll

motorbike engine revs her thighs
into heaven, pink and peach
on the complexion of a smooth child.
criminal is the doll which
says so little, eyes preternatural
blink and blink again
for the forest is the owl
and the skin which is the sky
is home to a million different lights
all coloured for you. and
lonely as the in-between.

 

her thighs ride the invisible,
the doll giggles, and stays
smooth; gets smoother.